Above the Serpentine
by moondusted
Summary: The end is coming fast and answers are still sparse. Desmond after AC II.
1. Sapiens Vivit Quantum Debet

**Warnings: **violence and some sex; spoilers for all games; the end of the world

**On the Title: **from the song "The Mission" by 30 Seconds to Mars

**On Desmond's Dreams:** I've noticed they leave considerably more room for interpretation than I had thought. After some consideration, I have decided to neither change nor explain them. Feel free to think of them what you wish. The only important thing to remember is that the eagle and the lion are significant and that Desmond is still feeling the effects of the bleeding effect.

**On Spelling and Grammer:** Chapters are not beta-read unless otherwise stated. I'm sorry for any unreadability. I'm doing my best.

**On Artistic Licence:** I'm making most of this up as I go along. Technology, science, geography, history... take your pick. I think it all fits, but if you spot some particularly glaring mistake, please let me know.

**On Updates: **Updates happen when they do. I'm still trying to stick to a schedule but you can probably see how well that one works.

**On Continuity:** This story does not take into account events past AC2, this was when I started writing. There is _no_ Brotherhood, _no_ Secret Crusade and most of all, _no_ Revelations. Some overlap happens in later chapters, when I could make it fit the story.

* * *

**ABOVE THE SERPENTINE  
**

**by moondusted**

* * *

**Chapter 1: Sapiens Vivit Quantum Debet, Non Quantum Potest**

It was the last safe house. Not the last in an end-of-the-line sense, but getting uncomfortably close to that state. It was the only within the vicinity, though, the only one left on the east coast. Their original plan was thwarted, nearly killing them all and so they had decided to split up. Shaun and Rebecca were going to Canada and the west coast respectively. They were harder to track in that way and far easier to kill should they be found, but they all knew how to run risks.

Lucy wasn't going to let Desmond out of her sight, though, even if he probably could take care of himself better than any of them. He possessed parts of the puzzle they all lacked, but there had been little time to acquaint him with the workings of the organisation.

It was a pompous apartment, expensive and huge on an upper floor of a New York skyscraper. Hiding in plain sight, in its most comfortable way, leaving paperwork and bureaucracy to cover it up.

Desmond gave an appreciative whistle and walked inside behind Lucy.

The living room lay in shadows. The windows went out over the city, its lights glittering like diamonds. It looked peaceful and quiet from here, with a sense of tranquillity the reality of it would be lacking completely.

Desmond threw himself on the low couch and dropped his head back. "Yeah, it's good to... "

Lucy made a sharp gesture with one hand and hushed him urgently.

She had felt something was off the moment she had walked in, but now she saw the vague blue glow coming from an adjoining room, where the door was slightly ajar.

Desmond followed the direction of her gaze, a silent intensity crept over him suddenly and he regained his feet smoothly and walked to the door without making any sound at all. Lucy's heart hitched in her throat in a sudden lurch of fear, but she forced it down mercilessly. It would take some time until she got used to Desmond no longer needing protection.

He pushed the door open slowly, the tension of his body betraying his readiness to react, to attack or evade whatever awaited him there. He made a movement of surprise, but then relaxed a little and walked in.

"It's fine," he said in a strangely toneless voice. He stepped aside to let her pass.

A man sat behind the desk on the other end of the room, the light from a laptop screen hiding rather than revealing his face.

She trusted Desmond's skill in determining the man's intention, but friend or not, he was still a stranger in a place where there definitely should not be one.

"Who are you?" she asked.

She saw the stranger shake his head and then he slid to his feet with the same consummate grace that Desmond was just beginning to develop. Only, in him, it seemed to have reached a level far beyond what human muscle and skin and bone should be able to achieve. He moved like water, perfectly fluid, but with a strange solidity that spoke of a trained fighter.

Lucy tensed, watching the movement. Not just a stranger, but an assassin, unmistakable and an experienced one at that. He stepped around the desk.

"Switch on the light," he said. There was the faint echo of an accent in his English, but not enough as to give her any clue about his origin.

It was Desmond who moved, who took a step aside to scan the wall briefly for the switch. She was unwilling to take her eyes of the stranger. Everything about him screamed of danger, motionless and unthreatening as he held himself.

The lights came on, flooded the room in sudden, clinical white light, tracing the stranger's tanned features. He still didn't move, standing as if in the spotlight.

He looked immediately, instantly familiar, though Lucy wasn't sure why - or how - that was even possible. At the same time, she could have sworn she had never seen him before, never seen anyone move like that - or stand still like that.

She heard Desmond grasp and then whisper, "That's not possible."

The line triggered something inside Lucy and her mind began, sluggishly, to assemble the pieces as they had been thrown at her. It was true, she had never met him before, but she had seen him often enough on one screen or another. Distorted as a reflection or as other people's memories, or displaced and _off _the way people often saw themselves. And more recently, there had been a statue, larger-than-life and every bit as deservedly imposing. The reality of him had thrown her, the dark jeans and black leather jacket, the short, styled hair that made him look like a hip, successful businessman.

Desmond, always so much closer to everything, of course Desmond saw past the facade fast, but she found she completely agreed with his assessment.

Altaïr inclined his head. He was older than he had been in the memories they had recorded from Desmond. Somewhere in his forties and aged well at that, especially considering his actual age of some 800 years.

"You read my diary," he said. "The Codex, though it was never meant to be that revered. You _know _I was tempted to use the Piece of Eden to prolong my life. You must have thought of the possibility I would take it."

Of course he was right, but there hadn't really been time to pursue all and every possible implication of what they had only so recently learned.

"You never died?" Lucy asked, rather pointlessly as it were. "But why did you never approach us? We are fighting your war. And we are losing!"

But she could tell he wasn't going to give her an answer to that.

"I'm here now," he said instead. "You've found the prophet."

Lucy send Desmond a quick glance. Now, that she knew what to look for, the resemblance was quite startling. Eight centuries and more and the bloodline ran almost completely true.

"Yeah, well," Desmond said. "For whatever that's worth."

"How do you know about that?" Lucy asked. Her voice had regained some of its strength and force.

"I believe I hacked your network," he said with the hint of a smile crossing his face. "I've had the time to learn a few new tricks."

"Clearly," Lucy said. for all her mind was racing, it wasn't coming up with many useful thoughts. She had seen a lot of things in the preceding weeks which she would have thought previously impossible, but she would readily admit that this just about took the cake. To make it worse, her instincts wouldn't stop screaming at her. There was something so inherently deadly about Altaïr, which was not surprising at all. But to face him, here in the flesh with nothing but a room's width between them was something new. For all her hard-won skills and for everything that Desmond had learned in the Animus, there was very little doubt Altaïr would take them both down within moments and it wouldn't be much of a fight.

"I don't know about you guys," Desmond said, pushing his fingers through his hair. "But I really could use a drink."

He tucked her along, his hand closing around her upper arm, pulling her back into the living room, forcing her to stop staring at Altaïr with that barely concealed hostility.

Altaïr strode after them, his hands buried in the pockets of his pants. He stopped a little distance away from the bar, out of easy reach from Lucy, but his attention rested on Desmond, who went down behind the bar.

"Nothing for me," Altaïr said.

Desmond pulled a wry grin. "I guess that's because you are used to encountering yourself."

"Not necessarily. I still don't quite understand the powers of the Piece of Eden and however it succeeds in sustaining my life is far beyond my comprehension. I don't know why it works and I don't know when, how or even if ever it will cease to work."

"Sucks, huh?" Desmond said. Crushed ice clanked against the glasses, more so than was strictly necessary as he slowly prepared the drinks. Time for Lucy to get her thoughts back in order, but his own composure wasn't more than skin-deep either.

"How did you know about the apartment?" Lucy asked suddenly. She itched to call Shaun, but it was too risky. She would be on her own for at least a week and preferably more. "Safe houses are not in the network."

It had occurred to neither of them to doubt he was who he claimed to be. Desmond would have seen through the lie, after all, and no one would ever even conceive one of this magnitude.

"Hiding in plain sight?" he asked. "I looked in the phone book."

"And how did you get in? The lock was fine and the porter would have said something."

Altaïr shrugged slightly. He pulled his hands from his pockets and Desmond stopped momentarily with what he was doing, just as Lucy's gaze was compelled to where the finger was missing. He wore fingerless gloves and the sleeves fell forward, making it impossible to tell whether there was a blade or not, but Lucy was certain there was.

He walked to the bar and sat down on a stool, resting his hands lightly in front of him. "I bribed handsomely and made some subtle threats. Is this questioning truly necessary?"

Desmond resumed his work, but found he was nearly done. The short respite gone before it could defuse the tension. "Are you sure you don't want anything?" Desmond asked.

Altaïr watched him for a long moment and Desmond wasn't sure there wasn't a hint of disdain in his gaze. "Coffee, since you are offering."

Desmond nodded, but then stopped. Coffee would mean he'd have to leave the room for the kitchen and then Altaïr and Lucy would be alone and she still had that odd fight-or-flight look about her. For a moment Desmond wished he could explain to her that no threat, truly, came from Altaïr. He wished there was some way to make her _see _it.

Lucy cleared her throat and shook her head. She had shifted her position to stand slightly behind Altaïr. Not enough to maybe unsettle him, but enough so Altaïr probably couldn't see the gesture.

"So all this time, but now you come here?" Lucy asked. "Just like that?"

But it was Desmond who answered in Altaïr's stead. This was the part he knew, after all, this was what Subject 16 had known, what Ezio had at least suspected.

"Because it's ending," Desmond said. He looked at Altaïr. "Isn't it? That Aztec or Incan or whatever calendar thing? The world is ending in a couple of weeks."

"More or less," Altaïr said. "I don't know what will happen." He turned in his seat so he could look at Lucy, talking to them both.

"Consider the following: If nothing is true, then there cannot be such a thing as predestination. There can only be... potencies for different futures. And if you know where to look, or have the technology to tell you such, then you make prophecies which will be nearly always accurate. Unless the premise is wrong, of course." He quirked his lips into another vague smile, making the scar stand out brightly white for a moment. Desmond had never really thought about it. His hand twitched upward to trace the scar on his own lip, thinking all the while that Ezio had been similarly marked.

"There is no truth," Lucy said with some finality.

There was, however a certain sense of symmetry, Desmond thought, feeling the scar keening.

"And what about that woman under the Vatican?" he asked. "She _knew _I was going to watch that scene through Ezio's eyes hundreds of years later. What was that, a lucky guess? What if my parents had called me Cameron?"

"That's..." Lucy began, though Desmond could tell she had not much of an answer to him. But Altaïr interrupted her. He said, "That's not important. We have to believe in something. And if there is no predestination, for any of us, or for the world, that means whatever ending is approaching us, we can still fight it."

Desmond pushed one of the glasses towards Lucy. "I'm with him. I'd rather go down fighting than wait demurely until something eats me."

Lucy hesitated. The exhaustion showed clear in her face, until she shook her head, shook herself seemingly free of it. She walked forward and took the seat by the bar, at Altaïr's side, picking up the glass with a sigh. "It makes sense," she said. "What do we do?"

It seemed a hard-won conclusion, Desmond could tell. He didn't completely understand her unwillingness to trust Altaïr. He suspected he himself should be far more floored by the man's sudden appearance than he was, but after everything, Abstergo, the Animus, Assassins and strange powerful artefacts... at some point he seemed to have ran out of mental capacity for bewilderment. At least Altaïr was better news than most of the rest had been.

Desmond picked up his own glass and tipped it to Lucy's before he drank.

"Well, _I,_" Desmond said. "Am going to make some coffee."

"We are going to Mexico," Altaïr said, making Desmond stop on his tracks and turn around. "We need to go to South America, but I'd rather avoid the airports around here."

"Templars?" Desmond asked.

"That too," Altaïr said. This time, the smile was brief, but distinctively real. "They keep giving me the terrorist treatment and it's such a hassle to get my weapons past them."

Desmond sniggered as he walked into the kitchen. It wasn't really funny, once you got to think about it. More than ten years and paranoia in America was getting worse with every passing year. Desmond, despite his own exotic looks, had hardly been subjected to it, but give the policemen some credit for instinct. Altaïr _would _ring warning bells on anyone used to danger, Arabic or otherwise.

From the kitchen, Desmond heard Lucy's voice.

"Why are airports in Mexico any better?" she asked.

"Fewer Templars," Altaïr replied. "I've been in Guatemala before coming here. The path is clean behind me, but it would have been a waste of time to do so this far north. We will only be passing through."

The coffee machine gargled, drowning out their voices. Desmond glanced through the door. From this angle he could only see Altaïr's elbow, poised on the bar counter, but his stance was relaxed enough. Desmond found a tray and assembled all accessories he thought they could use with the coffee. The tension between Lucy and Altaïr still bothered him and using steaming coffee as an argument made him feel like someone's housewife. Better than the alternative, he guessed, besides he had nothing to prove to either of them. Lucy was an insider to all of this, she knew more than he did regardless so there was no point in competing. And Altaïr was... well, _Altaïr _for fuck's sake.

He carried the tray back into the living room.

Lucy was actually giving him a smile when he arrived. "Oh gods, I'm tired," she sighed, wrapping her hand around a mug the moment Desmond put the tray down.

"You know," Desmond began, taking the last remaining seat. "I'm kinda wondering if Ezio is hiding behind the bathroom door or something, waiting to jump us."

Altaïr smiled slightly again. "He is hardly that type of man."

Lucy gave Desmond a quick, meaningful glance. Interesting choice of tense in that sentence, my ancestor. I wonder if you'd give me a straight answer?

"But he is going to show up?" Desmond asked. "I keep hearing about family get-togethers, but this one must be up there with the best. They should make a film of it."

"Unlikely," Altaïr said, but Desmond wasn't sure whether it was about possible Ezio's appearance or Desmond's proposed film project.

"What do we do once we get South?" Lucy asked.

"Truth be told, I had hoped you would know," Altaïr replied, putting the cup to his lips and watching her above the rim.

Lucy snorted. "Just great. But you know we need to go south?"

"It makes sense. You saw the vision as well as I did."

"Did we?" Lucy muttered, but Altaïr simply continued.

"The Maya gave us the date and the woman - if she was a woman at all - in the Vault gave us the direction, which again points to the Maya. If we mean to fight, we should do it on the battlefield."

"I must contact Shaun and Rebecca," Lucy said. "Everyone." She looked at Altaïr. "Isn't it?"

He only nodded and put the cup down. "Don't rush it. We have still time. Give the situation a chance to cool down. Regardless, I would like to know how your experiment with Desmond turned out."

"What do you mean?" Lucy asked, suddenly alert again.

"This bleeding effect. I want to know how much he's learned through it," he said and Desmond involuntarily winced at the mention. He had tried his best to suppress his misgivings once he had figured out what was at stake, but sometimes he couldn't help it. Only a handful of weeks ago he had had an ordinary life with dreams of something grander. He had been just like everybody else and than everything had gone pear-shaped on him. The bleeding effect. Accidental, probably, the first time around, though he was no longer sure about that. What was Altaïr asking, anyway? How much of an Assassin he had become inside a damned computer programme?

"He has all of Ezio's skills," Lucy said confidently, before Desmond had a chance to disagree. "And some of yours," she added.

"Good," he nodded. The cup made a quiet chink as he set it down on the polished counter. "I'd like to see it."

It took longer for Lucy to register the sudden change in him, longer than Desmond certainly, whose instincts kicked in instantly and he bounced to his feet like a thrown rubber ball, careless of the stool that swayed in the wake of the movement. But compared to Altaïr's swift, sure movement, they might as well have been stuck in slow-motion. He glided from the stool and past Lucy with all the precision of a striking serpent.

Desmond sorted his legs behind, had time to do so, just barely, for whatever support it might offered before Altaïr collided with him, tearing him down as if there had not been any resistance at all. Ezio might have avoided the attack, but while Desmond had all the man's skills, his body was still new to them, his muscles only sluggishly followed what instinct and borrowed experience screamed at them to do. Desmond squirmed away, tried to roll, anything, but Altaïr's right hand caught his shoulder as his left closed on his throat.

Desmond grasped, felt the hard edge of the hidden blade's sheath push against his skin. A different construction than what Desmond had seen, smaller, completely covered in the black material of the glove.

Belatedly, Desmond realised that Lucy had given a surprised yelp and jumped away herself. He saw her now, past Altaïr's shoulder hovering too close in indecision. He caught her eye, rather than bothering to fight on, beseeching her silently to stay out of it.

Abruptly, Altaïr let go, moved back and regained his feet fluidly. He stood relaxed while Desmond sat up and resisted the urge to put his hand against his throat to search for a puncture.

"That wasn't necessary!" Lucy announced. She had taken a fighter's stance, but made no other aggressive movement.

"I like to know the measure of my allies," Altaïr said.

"Disappointing, isn't it?" Desmond croaked. Altaïr hadn't pushed hard and the scene had been short. He wasn't sure why his voice was coming so rough or why his breathing had hitched.

Altaïr tilted his head to the side. Making seem golden suddenly, by some odd trick of the light. "I've seen worse."

"Yeah? By what measure?" Desmond asked. He thought the annoyance as it crept up on him was Ezio's rather than his own. Shortcomings notwithstanding, it shouldn't have been quite that easy to surprise him.

"There are limits," Altaïr said. "Experience was implanted in you, but it needs to take root first. I can teach you."

Desmond glanced up at the Assassin sceptically. "Sounds like bucket-loads of fun."

"Hardly," Altaïr said and extended his hand. "I'm a rotten teacher, or so I've been told."

Desmond gripped the hand and let himself be pulled back to his feet.

* * *

_Sapiens vivit quantum debet, non quantum potest. (The wise man will live as long as he ought, not as long as he can.) - Seneca the Younger_


	2. The Mark of Cain

**Chapter 2: The Mark of Cain**

Desmond and Lucy found some canned soup in the kitchen and wolfed it down quickly while Altaïr, as he put it, acquired a car.

Looking up from his bowl, Desmond had found himself saying, "You don't think he'll steal one, do you?"

Lucy had met his gaze but said nothing. A car which stood in no contact with them might be a good idea, but a stolen car attracted just a different sort of attention and you never knew just how far the Templars' influence stretched.

"One thing I know," Lucy had remarked dryly. "I'm not going to let someone from the Middle Ages drive."

It turned out to be a hired car, sleek and white and expensive. Lucy took the wheel as a matter of course. Neither man offered any argument and Desmond jumped at the opportunity to get some sleep in the back-seat.

But sleep didn't come, not quite as willingly as his exhaustion had made him believe. Too tired to sleep, he extended his legs on the clean seat and stuffed his jacket under his neck. He sat and stared out of the window as they slowly left New York behind and its artificial brightness faded to spots of light. It wasn't too late yet and the highway was full of other cars, though not so many as to hinder their progress.

Desmond had no recollection of falling asleep. But he dreamt, his strained nerves and confused mind conjuring disjected images, a great, bizarre collage of the days just past. Everything rushing past him the way they said your life did in the moment of your death. There was temple, he _knew _it was a temple, though its architecture looked wrong in all possible ways. The sun was too huge behind it and its colours kept changing, inverting back and forth. There was a stone lion at the gate of the temple and as Desmond watched it suddenly came to life, jumping for a large bird like a playful house-cat. Where the bird had suddenly come from, Desmond had no idea and he couldn't see it clearly either. A dove? he thought. Possibly, with shining white feathers now quickly getting soiled by its blood. The lion's teeth tore into the bird and Desmond thought he felt their sting on his own body...

Desmond jumped, hit his head and let himself fall back down. "Ouch! Fuck!"

"Are you all right?" Lucy asked. She didn't take her eyes off the road. "Did you hallucinate?"

Desmond cradled his head in his hand. He sat up, felt the muscles in his neck and shoulders protest. "I didn't hallucinate," he said. He wasn't quite sure whether he was all right or not so he decided to ignore the question. "Just bumped my head, that's all."

Bits of the dream still clung to him and proved surprisingly persistent to shake. He wasn't going to call it a vision just yet.

"Are you up to driving?" Lucy asked. "I could use a break."

"Sure," he said.

Lucy stopped at the next opportunity and handed Desmond the keys under the express condition that only he would do the driving. Desmond didn't feel like arguing so he simply nodded.

"If it's too cold I can up the heating," Desmond offered as Lucy kept shifting around behind him.

"No, thanks, I'm fine," she said and punched Desmond's jacket.

"Try to get some sleep," Altaïr advised, the first thing he had said in quite some time.

Lucy muttered something inaudibly, but seemed to finally settle down. There was silence after that.

It was difficult to stay awake and alert in the night. The lights drifted past them in a blur and the low humming of the car's engine slowly lured him into a state of mental absence. Desmond pulled over after a near accident and left the car to Altaïr and huddled in the passenger seat, letting the darkness and its pinpoints of light lull him as they rushed past. He was vaguely grateful Lucy hadn't woken to offer any argument, he wasn't feeling up to it right now.

Altaïr drove that little bit too fast, that little bit too aggressive to make for a comfortable journey.

"What's it like?" Desmond asked, breaking the silence. "Living for so long, I mean?"

"It is one day after the other, it's less spectacular than you might think."

They overtook a truck, the sound swelled for a moment and then subsided again. "Did you see them grow old? Your sons?"

Desmond hesitated, closed his eyes for a moment against the glare of a roadside sign. He had felt like an intruder on those memories before. He hadn't had a right to be there, but the faint memories of love and loss still lingered in his mind regardless. He added, "Maria?"

Altaïr's voice retained its calm, but Desmond thought he heard the trace of sadness there, but maybe that was only because he knew it had to be there.

Altaïr said, "Maria died in Asia. And so did Hassan." He paused. "And it was for nothing, too. The Mongols achieved their success not with a Piece of Eden at all. Just human skill and determination and ambition."

Altaïr changed lanes, from the far right to the left, brought them past other cars. One of them honked.

"But sort of reassuring, too," Desmond said, more thinking aloud than anything. "That we don't always need these artefacts to get anywhere."

"As you say," Altaïr said neutrally.

"There is still something I don't understand," Desmond said and than had to laugh. "Yeah, well, like a ton of stuff I don't understand. But really, if you never died why _did _you go into hiding. You could have been an asset and maybe all of this wouldn't be happening."

"Or maybe the Templars would have been motivated to seek me out and kill me for good."

Altaïr changed lanes again, brought them past a column of trucks. He continued, "But that is not all of the reason, no."

Desmond said nothing. He wasn't quite sure what prompted Altaïr speak like this. He sounded open and Desmond had enough insight into who Altaïr was, or at least once had been, to keep his silence then.

The play of lights changed, the rhythm of it, breaking the mood like an assassinated pope in the middle of service. The glare moved too close and then a police car, firmly, placed itself in front of them.

"Oh shit," Desmond muttered and closed his eyes for a moment. "That's not good, is it?"

"I have seen worse," Altaïr remarked with genuine humour.

"Yeah, well," Desmond made. He wondered what it would be like to watch Altaïr kill. He knew how it _felt _like but he had never seen it. What was it like to actually see that kind of lethal precision executed right in front of your eyes?

They stopped at the side of the road. In the space the cops needed to swagger over to them, Desmond turned around and prodded Lucy awake. She growled, resistant at first, but then she opened her eyes and they cleared fast. She sat up and took in her surroundings quickly.

"I _told _you not to let him drive," she said. Desmond could have laughed at the childishness of the remark, but he didn't quite feel like it.

"Because both of us doing a bad impression of a stoned drunk would have been so much better," he said instead.

"Shut up," Lucy hissed.

The cop pranced to the window, his college staying back a little. A flashlight cut through the car. Motionless, both Lucy and Altaïr held still and only closed their eyes, only Desmond lifted his hand to shield his eyes.

"Ah well, _Osama," _the cop drawled, focusing the flashlight at Altaïr's face. Which, thankfully, hid Desmond as he rolled his eyes in exasperation. He had once had a girlfriend who was a cop. She had kept ranting about all the clichés whenever they encountered them. Real policemen, she kept saying, aren't like that _at all. Or, _she always added, _ever. _Looks like she was wrong, but at this point, it was hardly the greatest surprise in his life.

"In a bit of a rush, are you?" the cop continued. "Well, we around here have something like traffic laws, you know. And they apply to everyone. I need to see your driving licence and ID."

Desmond saw Altaïr's expression change. He plastered something of a wide, friendly smile across his normally so cold features. "But of course," he said warmly. "I'm sorry, we really are in a hurry." He looked sideways at Desmond. "All the papers are in the glove compartment. Can you give them to me, please?"

"Sure," Desmond said, pulled something of an imitation of Altaïr's expression and bent forward. The papers were all the way fake, as much Desmond could spot in the short moment it took to hand them over to Altaïr.

The cop scrutinised the papers for a long moment, then returned his gaze to Altaïr's missing finger, the clear gap it made with his hands resting on the wheel.

"What happened there?" he asked.

"A childhood accident," Altaïr replied. "A long time ago, it's barely true anymore."

Funny how the truth could sound like a contrivance, under the right circumstances, Desmond thought.

The cop turned his flashlight at Lucy. "Is everything all right, ma'am?" he asked. His tone suggested that something _had _to be wrong for a blonde woman to be travelling in that company.

"I was asleep," Lucy said pointedly.

The cop kept watching her sceptically, but when she gave him no pleading look whatsoever, the cop turned his attention back to Altaïr.

"Where are you going?"

"To Miami," Altaïr said. "Over the weekend. Celebrating my brother's engagement with Melissa there."

Desmond wasn't sure of how long that might have continued, but then he saw the cop's colleague in the rear-view mirror making a rather distinct gesture.

"Please get out of the car," the cop said and stepped aside so the door couldn't accidentally be smashed against him.

"Really..., "Desmond heard himself say but his own voice just trailed away. He could tell as well as anyone that they had rather fast moved past the point where arguing still made any sense.

But Altaïr himself made another attempt. "Look," he began reasonably enough.

"I said _Get out of the car!" _the cop repeated sharply.

Something minimal changed in Altaïr's expression. Desmond saw it only from the side, but the cop must have caught it, too, making him take a cautious step back and put his hand to his gun. He made a quick gesture for his partner.

But for now, Altaïr made no aggressive move. Instead, he got out of the car slowly, as asked, keeping his arms spread wide in a gesture of sheer harmlessness.

"Against the car!" the cop barked.

Again, Altaïr complied without hesitation. His face was perfectly calm as it became visible through the side window, serene even.

His eyes flickered golden.

Desmond felt the rush of adrenaline, as if he was still in the Animus and able to share in the undeniable mounting excitement right before a kill.

Dimly, Desmond was aware of Lucy getting read to jump from the car the moment the action started, but his attention was focused, solely, on Altaïr.

The cop put his hands to Altaïr's side, but didn't get very far with the search. _Gun_, Desmond thought and didn't quite know where the knowledge came from, he had never actually seen it.

The cop stepped to the side a little so he could reach forward, past Altaïr's jacket. He was beginning to say something, another trite, derogatory comment, but he never got that far, never even got as far as uttering a sound.

Altaïr peeled himself away from the car and twisted sideways, just a slight movement, too faint and too fast for the cop to react. Altaïr brought his left hand around and put the hidden blade right through the cop's eye and into his brain. Before the man had time to sag, Altaïr turned around fully and, in catching him, put the hidden blade into his heart twice for good measure.

Lucy kicked open her door and sped around the car. The second cop had had the time to pull out his gun, but Lucy distracted him. It bought Altaïr the time to twirl the dead cop around like an unwilling dancing partner and hold him like a shield between himself and the second cop. Who had foolishly dismissed the woman as a threat and whipped his gun back around, aiming at Altaïr. His mistake about Lucy never came through. Altaïr had drawn his own gun from its holster and shot, the quiet hiss from the silencer was drowned completely out by the cars passing them by.

Lucy kept moving, sprinting to the police car and throwing herself into the driver's seat. She switched off the lights.

Desmond, belatedly, climbed out of the car and hurried to the second cop, dragging him along.

"Crap," Desmond remarked airily. He was running out of words to adequately describe his type of bad luck.

"What went wrong?" Altaïr asked, leaning by Lucy's side in the open door. "Do we know?"

"There is a search warrant for us," Lucy said. "No names and no car, but accurate descriptions of all of us." She looked at Altaïr. "Including you."

"Including the finger?" he asked.

_Excluding _the finger, Desmond corrected fleetingly.

"No, but..."

"Security camera, then," Altaïr concluded. "Probably outside your apartment building. No harm done."

Lucy gave him a pointed look, but only said, "We need to get that car off the road."

They heaved both dead cops back into their car and then pushed it away from the road into the darkness. It would last until morning, at the utmost, but more likely it gave them a head-start of no more than a handful of minutes. The two cops would be missed soon enough.

"I'll drive," Lucy declared on the way back to their car. "I've had enough rest and I ain't trusting you guys."

"Wait," Altaïr said. He took his jacket off and tossed it carelessly into the back-seat. Walking back around he slipped the gun holster off and pulled the bloodied shirt over his head, throwing the latter in the rough direction of the discarded police-car.

Lucy and Desmond climbed in the car while Altaïr opened the trunk and quickly dug for a new shirt.

"They were Templars, weren't they?" Desmond asked. "How could they find us so fast?"

"We aren't out of the hot zone yet," Lucy said. "There was a reason why we went to the safe house. Maybe we should have stayed there."

Desmond said nothing. He didn't really want to be there when Lucy began to challenge Altaïr for the leadership he had so naturally taken.

A cellphone rang, too loud in the stillness that had followed the exchange and Desmond startled at the new sound.

"Altaïr!" he yelled, picking up the jacket from his side. "Your jacket's ringing!"

With shirt and holster in hand, Altaïr walked back around and took the phone as Desmond handed it out through the window.

Altaïr took a few steps away before he answered it. He stood motionless, for the moment unconcerned by the autumn wind, but it was a mild enough season, climatic change had taken care of that.

The noise from the road stole some of his words away.

"I wasn't sure," Altaïr said.

"You know," Desmond said, watching Altaïr through the window. "I'm not going to fight with him."

Just looking at the man made Desmond feel like the softer part of pudding, but he doubted he'd have to spell that out to Lucy. He had never been the athletic type and while he conceded that his genes - oh the joke of that! - were good enough to keep him in presentable shape, he was not up to any of this, not against anything above the thugs Vidic had send against them.

"You aren't going to fight with him," Lucy agreed, but Desmond thought he heard her smiling. She adjusted the rear-view mirror so she could see both Desmond and Altaïr. "But he has a point. You need some physical training, too. We'd have given you that anyway, but since he offered..."

"He'll take me apart," Desmond observed matter-of-factly. He recalled the confidence, though the Animus had conveyed facts rather than feelings. There was a sense of what it felt like in Altaïr's skin, the security of him and the completeness with which he could afford to rely on his skills. It was the same with Ezio, easier to relate to for Desmond, for with Ezio he had slowly grown into that confidence rather than being thrust in it at its peak. But in both cases, they were still _other _men, regardless of what he had shared with them or what they might have in common.

Altaïr was saying, "Can you call me once you are on your way?"

"Don't worry," Lucy told Desmond.

"All things considered, what, really, makes you say that?" Desmond asked back. "This is fucked."

"Yes," Lucy sighed. "Yes it is. And I'm not going to lie to you. We thought we had it - well, no, we never had it under control. But it was mostly covered, you know. But it's all gone completely out of hand."

She was still meeting his gaze in the small mirror, as if it was somehow easier than to face him directly.

Desmond shrugged. "Doesn't the Bible say something about the dead getting resurrected on the Day of Judgement? Sound familiar?"

"I don't think he ever was dead to start with," Lucy said. She put the rear-view- mirror back into its useful position as Altaïr, fully dressed again and with the gun back in place, returned to the car.

"Well," Desmond said slowly. "If _I _wrote predictions about what would happen thousands of years in the future, I'd go easy on the inaccuracies."

Altaïr slipped into the passenger seat and pulled the door closed. "Can we go?"

"Are you going to tell us who called you?" Lucy asked.

"It doesn't concern you just yet," Altaïr said.

"I don't like this," Lucy remarked as she started the car and brought them back to the road. "Is it necessary that you still keep secrets from us?"

Altaïr didn't answer immediately. Desmond imagined something of a smile crossing Altaïr's composed face, especially in light of his response, when it came.

"I'm adapting," he said. "Or, as you would put it, I'm making it up as I go along. I have no answers for you, only suspicions."

* * *

**Author's Note: **I hear you, you want Ezio. Thing is, I will only include him if I can make him work. Look for him in the next part.

Also, my apologies to all real traffic cops out there, but these were, primarily, Templar puppets (even though they didn't know it).

Merry Christmas, everyone!


	3. Silken Lines and Silver Hookes

**Chapter 3: Silken Lines and Silver Hookes**

Glass went down in a rain of glittering shards around them when the windows imploded under the impact of bullets.

Rebecca dived away and rolled behind a shelf of soft drinks.

"Who," Shaun, a little out of breath, asked the world in general. "Gets into a gunfight in a _gas station_?"

He huddled behind a magazine rack, close to the edge, so he could occasionally lean forward and offer a few shots of his own in the vague direction of their attackers.

"Us?" Rebecca asked back. "Are you sure the back exit is closed?"

The gas station's staff and two other customers had fled and their future fate was not high on the priority list of either Assassin.

"You hear any alarms ringing?" Shaun asked. "No? That's because it can only be opened from the _inside_ and with an alarm going off."

Rebecca pulled a grimace. It made no difference under what kind of pressure you put Shaun. Something bigger than the end of the world had to happen to make him watch his tongue. Annoying as he could be, at least he was a constant that wasn't likely to change any time soon.

Unless, of course, they died here in which case nothing of this mattered at all anyway.

"You know," Shaun said. Bullets tore through the magazines above his head and he edged forward to the door, pushing himself up with his back pressed tightly against the stone doorway. "This would make a terrible movie."

Rebecca grunted her agreement. A shard of glass had blazed past her neck and left a burning streak, distracting her. She rushed forward, hopped around a pile of strewn candy packs and took up position on the other side of the door.

Three cars were parked outside, cutting off their escape even if they managed somehow to get to their van. When it had started, Rebecca had still had the time to worry about the Animus stored in the car, but she had moved beyond that. Machinery, after all, was replaceable.

"If you have any bright ideas," Rebecca said. "Now is the time to hear them."

"There are some historic examples I could offer," Shaun said.

"I'd like one where they survived, please."

The firing had stopped for the moment. The Templars had minced what was there of wood and glass, all the rest would stand solid for a while.

Rebecca leaned forward just a little, the tip of her nose going past the edge. Her eyes wide, she took one step, aimed, fired and danced back into cover.

She knew without having any way to confirm it that she had hit her mark. She had last missed it when she was twelve years old. She wondered how often she could pull the trick.

"Your turn," she said.

"If that is your way to tell me you love me," Shaun began, but left the quip open as he suddenly, at the same time as she did, leaned around.

Aim, fire, retreat.

A hail of bullets went down, battering the stone that covered them. It was only a question of time.

Rebecca hurried past the window and took a new position, but this time she wasn't fast enough. A bullet tore through her shoulder and she went down spitting curses.

The floor was hard, covered in shards, but for that long moment before the pain truly hit her she almost relaxed against it. She saw Shaun across the room lift his gun and jump-start, firing blindly this time as he dived for her side.

"Cornered," Rebecca muttered. "Like damned rats."

He nodded. "Press your hand against the wound."

"What for?" she asked back, but did it anyway.

A new sound cut the air. A rifle shot, but it wasn't followed by an impact anywhere near them. Other shots followed in quick succession. Short and quick and then there was silence.

There was only the sound of them breathing, Rebecca's coming a little ruggedly, but the wound was nasty but not immediately deadly.

As the silence stretched on, Shaun lifted his head carefully, ready to spring back or fire, but there was nothing. He stood up slowly. The Templars' cars were still where they had been, but the men lay strewn around. From what he could see each with a bullet in the head as if they had been executed from a distance.

"What?" Rebecca asked and dragged herself upward on his arm and a nearby shelf. "Wow," she added. "I don't think we did that."

The entire street was deserted in both directions, no car no man nor siren at all. No nothing. They might as well be suspended in time.

Across the street was a tall building, apartments which had seen better days. Movement at its door caught their attention and Shaun lifted his hand to shield his eyes against the low autumn sun.

Emerging from the shadow of the building's doorway, the man walked with a casual swagger towards them, paying no heed to the carnage at his feet. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder as if it was the perfect accessory for a designer suit and polished boots. Sunglasses hid his eyes from sight.

Shaun pulled Rebecca's arm over his shoulder and helped her to her feet. She hissed in pain, her fingers clutching the material of his shirt. They laboured outside together.

The man made a short discourse, walking to one of the shot men and crouched down to pull something from his pocket. He twirled it around his fingers as he stood back up, making the keys catch the light.

"I'm late," the man said as he came to stand in front of Shaun and Rebecca. "Sorry."

Shaun opened his mouth, staring at him in incomprehension. His mind seemed to have stopped working and while he was certain most people handled that state well out of sheer habit - Desmond, for example - he wasn't used to it. He opened his mouth and said, "Scar."

It didn't make any immediate sense to him either, but it was the only thing, really, that came to mind.

It seemed to take the man in front of him by surprise, but only for a moment. He pushed his sunglasses down from his eyes.

"Kind of you to notice," he remarked with thin sarcasm. "However, instead of exchanging more pleasantries, perhaps your lovely friend wants to be taken to a hospital?"

"That's too dangerous," Shaun said, knowing as well as anyone that, in the long run, a hospital was her only chance. At his side, Rebecca pushed herself into a more upright position and peered at their saviour. "I am dying," she declared. "I've gone into a delirium, because you are not real."

Ezio offered an elegant shrug, shifted the rifle to the other shoulder and unceremoniously got hold of Rebecca, lifting her into his arms as if she had no weight at all.

"I'm real and you aren't dying," he said smiling. "But beautiful women often dream of me. Shall we?"

* * *

Fighting Altaïr was one of the most frustrating experiences Desmond had ever had. It wasn't because Altaïr was good - he had always known that - but the real problem was that Desmond kept _seeing _the openings, the chances to strike, the moments when to defend and how. He saw it all, but he couldn't get his body to move as fast as he wanted it. His back didn't bent the way it should and his balance never came back in time.

They had driven throughout the night and stopped a while ago to buy breakfast only to drive on until they had stopped at this place. It had once been a camping site, but it had been closed years ago. Mesh fences had been drawn around it, but they had long since been unhinged on several places.

Desmond hadn't liked the idea of a sparring session but for once Lucy was in firm agreement with Altaïr and there was no arguing against _that _united front. Lucy now sat in the car, one leg casually hoisted up against the open door. She was watching them with a cup of coffee in her hand. Twice Desmond had looked her way to try and gauge if he was really doing as terribly as he felt, but there had been nothing to read in her face.

Desmond thudded back to the ground and groaned. The ground wasn't particularly hard, dust and dirt and the occasional pebble that hurt more than it should. Granted, Altaïr _was _careful not to inflict any lasting damage, but that was as far as it went. He had even taken off the gloves, both of them, with their hidden blades as if he feared accidentally using them in the heat of battle.

Desmond heard Altaïr's retreating footsteps, but made no attempt to get back to his feet. "I'm not sure we are getting anywhere with this," Desmond said. "And to be frank, it's starting to be embarrassing."

He sat up. There was a bruise spreading on his stomach that already ached nastily when he did. He stared up at Altaïr against the early sun, eyes drawn to slits.

"You can see my movements," Altaïr said. "You know how to respond. All the rest is easy."

"So where have you been that past hour?" Desmond asked.

Altaïr walked forward again, offering his hand _again _to help Desmond to his feet _fucking again. _Resigned to his fate, Desmond took it and stood sullenly. Altaïr stepped back, watched Desmond like a predator.

Desmond saw the change, a flicker of intent, a slight tightening of muscle along the jaw, right before Altaïr sprung again. Half-resigned for another impact, Desmond simply waited, judging the angle of the jump academically as it closed in on him. A moment before they collided, Altaïr ducked low and to the side. One leg kicked forward, knocked Desmond's feet away from under him while his arm was gripped and he twisted as he fell.

Something whispered at the back of his mind, _right leg, _it said. Desmond acted, jerked his right leg down, arms flailing, but it unexpectedly was enough to suddenly break his fall. He tensed and turned instinctively, made Altaïr's elbow brush past his shoulder harmlessly enough. Altaïr let go immediately and slipped further, danced around Desmond and put both hands to Desmond's head and neck, applying just the hint of pressure.

"Dead," Altaïr observed and gave Desmond a slight shove.

Panting, Desmond whirled around. For a moment, another man's anger welled up in him. Indignant, wounded pride at being bested like this. It almost propelled him forward in a serious attack. He thought better of it, though.

"You move too fast," Lucy told Altaïr. She had left her place and was walking towards them. "Even I can barely follow you, and I know how this is done."

Altaïr watched Lucy for a long moment. "We all _know _how this is done. Only he doesn't know how to put knowledge into action."

"Go slower," she said again. "I'm a great believer in a sink-or-swim approach to learning, but it won't help here."

"You can actually swim, can you?" Desmond asked suddenly.

Altaïr gave him a frown, more puzzled than Desmond had ever seen him.

"What?" Lucy asked, rather incredulously as well.

"I kept losing Synchronisation in water," Desmond said. "I just wondered," he added with an apologetic shrug.

"Of course I can swim," Altaïr said in a tone of voice that suggested he really didn't know why he had to say something this obvious.

"I think that might have been a bug in the Animus," Lucy said. "Complex systems sometimes cause strange errors. You should have said something."

Desmond took a deep breath and shook his head. "Never mind," he said, suppressing a sigh.

"No, it's important," Lucy insisted. "If you spot some weird problem in the Animus, you really must say so. Only than we can fix it."

Desmond eyed her. "You still want me to get back into that thing?"

He was surprised himself at the dread that suddenly came over him and he didn't entirely like it. He covered it quickly with a shrug and a frown. "I thought this time around we would be doing stuff in the real world."

The look Lucy gave him suggested his gut reaction had not escaped her and her gaze softened for no more than a moment, only to turn entirely professional again when she looked at Altaïr and back at Desmond.

"Ready?" she asked.

This time, they did it differently. Using Lucy as a willing stand-in, Altaïr went through the motions slowly, with a certain lack of enthusiasm, and then let Desmond mirror his movements.

It worked like a charm. At this speed, Desmond's mind had time to consciously work with what instinct and borrowed experience told him to do. His muscles ached and burned in the unfamiliar movements, resisted half the time and he felt awkward and ill-balanced the rest. But, gradually, everything became smooth, liquid, so _natural _it was worrying_. _

Other memories were coming back, too, and they were his own for a change. Memories of his childhood in the desert and the lessons then. It felt more distant than all the borrowed knowledge from his ancestors somehow, but it was beginning to seep back now. The feeling was peculiar, his own memories stranger than those of his ancestors.

It even started feeling good after that, but he still lacked the training. As the session continued, he suddenly kept missing his timings again, exhaustion taking away what little control he had.

He stepped back from Lucy, smiling, wiping the back of his hand over his damp forehead.

Lucy returned his smile and stood relaxed. "I think that wasn't half bad," she declared.

The sun had wandered across the horizon. Desmond frowned at it. "Didn't we lose a lot of time?" he asked.

"Not really," Altaïr said. "If we drive on until nightfall, I can provide us with a safe house."

Desmond only shook his head. "You know, a few weeks ago the idea of 'safe houses' has never entered my mind. Outside of spy novels, that is."

He turned away and made for the car slowly. "Can we stop somewhere and get something to eat? I'm..."

He heard something thud behind him and twisted about, mouth gaping open in surprise. He had missed the first move, had no idea who of the two of them had started, but Lucy and Altaïr had suddenly decided to test each other in a serious sparring. While Desmond still wondered whether he should separate them, he heard Lucy remark something and the laughter in her voice told him this was not the fight he had dreaded.

He gave an inward shrug and relaxed, resolving to enjoy the show.

For a very long, Lucy had excelled in fighting. The most dangerous thing that crossed her path had been her own skill. For too long, she hadn't faced an opponent who offered truly any challenge and because she was an intelligent woman she understood the danger inherent in that. It made you mellow and complacent, it invited sloppiness and, in the end, an ugly death.

When Desmond had pulled out, Lucy had seen her chance at something more interesting and Altaïr must have sensed it for she hardly took him by surprise. She had worried a little he might misunderstand her intent, but she saw an answering smile flash across his face before he dipped away under her blow.

He had all the advantages, of course. He was taller and stronger than her and while against anyone else, Lucy would have known she could prevail with speed and agility she could already tell it wasn't going to come through in the way it normally would. But she enjoyed it, this fight - this _dance _- between them. The lightning exchange of blow and counter and defence. He was only playing with her, she could tell as much, but he didn't make it look like that.

She would have been angry if he had taken her challenge as a joke.

She dodged back, below his arm and briefly wondered if his greater reach might be something she could use against him. If she got inside his guard, perhaps, after he missed a lunge for her. She shifted the balance to one foot as she stood back up. Saw the kick for her leg just in time and shifted the balance back, jumped it elegantly and caught his descending arm against her own. Immediately, she twisted it, resolving the lock and ducked her head back before he could get a hold of her. He adapted instantly, moved his feet before she could spring the same trick on him. She withdrew, breathing hard and eyes lit brightly, but she didn't go far, knowing he wouldn't give her much of a pause while the fight lasted.

She propelled herself forward, keeping her head down and her arms by her side, ready to dodge to the side and away. As predicted, he saw the move and where she was going with it. He danced around, following her, but the movement, by its nature took away some slight measure of his footing. She swept her leg low, at its full length and felt it connect with his shin. The strength of the impact told her she it had actually worked, she had tripped him successfully, but it was going to cost her. In a serious fight, she would never have run that risk, but she was free to do as she pleased, here. She hadn't realised how much she sometimes missed that.

Altaïr's hand closed around her arm and held her hard, tearing her down with him. In falling, she made one last attempt to roll away before he could get his other arm around. He hit the ground first, in an impact that had to hurt, but his shoulders had hunched up, protecting his head. He jerked her to the side and with the same momentum reversed their position before she could finish the roll, crouching above her, one of his legs aligned over her thighs and his hands firmly on her arms.

Pinned, she grinned up at him and stopped struggling.

"Did you get my measure?" she inquired lightly.

It was difficult to see his face against the bright sky behind him, but she could still make out a smile on his curved lips.

"Did you get mine?" he asked back.

"Some," she said, wondering only now whether that had been the reason for this all along. Maybe watching him fight had pricked her curiosity, something of professional rivalry. And it was true, too, how she needed to find out how reliable he was. All his history notwithstanding, she had never met him face to face. She had some idea of who he had once been, but these had been only snapshots, isolated moments in time and it was so very long ago.

He moved back from her and to his feet, taking a few more steps away from her, just in case she wanted another go.

Instead, Lucy curled herself up and straightened, stretching her arms out over her head to loose the tensed muscles in her neck.

Desmond was clapping. "Wow," he said. "Makes me feel inferior all over again. Are you sure you want to bother with teaching me?"

"We'll need everything we can get," Lucy said. "Besides, you'll be good at this. It will come to you, I'm sure of it."

They strode back to the car and Lucy didn't comment when Altaïr picked the driver's seat.

Desmond thought about that every family had a black sheep and he wondered if Those Who Came Before could, somehow, be persuaded to wait for another generation or so, but perhaps they had been as much victims of circumstance as Desmond found himself now.

* * *

Ezio took them to a small hospital at the edge of town. It had a strong nineteen-sixties flair which didn't invite confidence. On the other hand, it looked the kind of place where they could make a quick exit as soon as Rebecca had been treated.

Much to his surprise, Shaun found he had not come out of it all as unscathed as he had thought. One long gash on his upper arm meant at least one bullet had grazed him without noticing. It barely even hurt, but he was fairly sure the pain would come once the adrenaline levels in his blood dropped back to normal. He was a historian, not a cowboy.

His arm stitched and bandaged, he found a seat in a corner, while two nurses helped a doctor with Rebecca.

Ezio had taken position in the doorway after he had dragged the door closed. He effectively blocked it now, but neither doctor nor nurses had figured that out yet.

Taking a deep breath and feeling exhaustion slowly slide up his limbs, Shaun studied Ezio across the room. There had been few opportunities to get actual footage of his face, only when he had passed a mirror, which, come to think of it, hadn't happened all that rarely. Some vanity there, although where he had found the time was beyond Shaun, considering the kind of conspiracy webwork Ezio had once found himself in.

The scar on his lip hardly marred his appearance, thin as it was, in exactly the same place as Desmond's. Shaun still cringed at the memory. It wasn't like the scar was the extend of the resemblance between Desmond and Ezio, but in his addled state it had somehow jumped out at him.

Ezio had made a call before and convinced a stern-looking nurse with a bright smile to let him do it instead of kicking him outside. Shaun had not heard anything of the conversation. It was brief and there was no time to ask right then.

The nurses stepped away from Rebecca and quickly, efficiently, began packing their tools away while the doctor walked over to the sink to wash her hands. Ezio shook into motion and strode towards her.

She looked up at him. "It's a gunshot wound," she said before he had a chance. "I must report it. I don't take bribes, so spare your breath."

One could wonder whether she encountered gunshot wounds a lot, given the way she acted.

Ezio smiled brightly. "I know," he agreed amiably. "And I was never offering a bribe."

She only shrugged, reached past the sink for a towel and began drying her hands. She began to turn away, but found the Ezio blocked her way completely. "Sir," she said reasonably, far from cowed by him looming so close. "You are not making it easier."

The two nurses were finished with their work, one still hovered around by the door, though, eying Ezio warily.

"I was, however," Ezio continued as if she had never spoken at all. "Offering to let you live."

Blunt, Shaun thought. He shifted forward in his seat, ready to force his tired muscles into motion and take care of the nurse.

"You..." the doctor said, turning around. It was not her smartest move. It wedged her almost automatically between the sink and the wall. "Don't do anything stupid," she finished, but insecurity had crept into her voice.

"Doctor Jacobson?" the nurse asked, skittish on her feet.

The doctor stared up into Ezio's eyes. Shaun had no idea what she saw there, but the blood suddenly drained from her face and her voice was shaky. "Call security!" she didn't quite shout it. Ezio gave a slight shrug and moved only one arm, plunging something into the doctor's side and caught her as she fell.

Shaun bounced from his seat the same moment and intercepted the nurse on her way to the door. She shrieked and Shaun hissed an uncharacteristic curse. It lasted no more than a moment, until Ezio had crossed the room and took out the nurse. He let her slide to the ground.

Shaun stared at him. "Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent," he murmured.

Ezio arched his brows. "Do not compromise the Brotherhood," he countered. "But your righteousness is misplaced. The two ladies are hardly dead, only soundly asleep for the next few hours."

Rebecca, meanwhile, he struggled into sitting position. She looked rather pale but otherwise fine. "Where do we go now?" she asked.

"Away from here," Ezio said simply. "I've got flights booked to Guatemala."

"Guatemala?" Rebecca asked.

"Makes sense," Shaun said. "After all, that's where Minerva told us to go, if you really tried, you _could_ remember."

"Smart-ass," Rebecca growled, but it was a friendly sort of growl. "What about Lucy and Desmond?"

"They will meet us there," Ezio said. "I'll explain everything, but I'd rather do that while we are moving."

They left the hospital behind without anyone trying to stop them.

"I'm still waiting for the explanation," Shaun said. They had been driving for some time now and he was really beginning to feel tired now, putting his mood on edge.

"Going into hiding was a good plan," Ezio began. "But there are times when you need to fight on before you get to lick your wounds."

"Guatemala, then," Shaun said with a nod. "Where the Maya were with their temples and hidden... whatever."

"The Templars believe it to be a hidden weapon of some kind. More powerful than the Pieces of Eden by far, however, we think this is not the case."

"We?" Rebecca asked tiredly from the backseat. "Who is we?"

Ezio chuckled a little. "Your guesses must be running wild by now. Who do you think?"

"I don't think either of us is in the mood for games," Shaun said, rubbing his eyes. "Altaïr?" he asked.

"And it was so easy to win," Ezio grinned. "He is taking care of Lucy and Desmond."

Shaun gave him a frown. "Does it make a difference that I was jesting?"

"No," Ezio still grinned.

Rebecca was about to say something, but she had moved to fast and her words were lost in a groan. Ezio glanced over his shoulder for a second. "My lovely, don't strain yourself."

She bared her teeth. "I'm wonderful. But... does this all mean we are really in trouble? You? Altaïr? Who else is going to wander onto the scene?" She made a pause. "And are you sure I'm not in a delirium?"

"Am I not enough for you?" Ezio inquired lightly.

"Try 'too much'," Rebecca said with a grimace. "What about Altaïr?"

The grin faded from Ezio's face, though only faintly. "What about him?" he repeated.

"You two were, what, working behind the scenes for all those years?" Shaun asked. He sounded unusually irritated to his own ears.

"I don't know," Ezio replied, completely serious for the first time. "Altaïr and I, we... go our separate ways." He gave neither of them time to make sense of the sudden tension. He continued, "But there are more important things to talk about anyway. The Templars are looking for a weapon, but if you really pay attention to what Minerva said, you realise how unlikely such an interpretation is. She was not talking about a weapon. She was talking about some kind of defence system."

* * *

_"Silken Lines and Silver Hookes" from The Baite by John Donne_

* * *

**Author's Note: **Ezio, by popular demand. Ta!

I am, however, only here for Altaïr, don't expect anyone to steal his limelight.


	4. And Cast Their Bodies to the Dogs

**Chapter 4: And Cast Their Bodies to the Dogs and Birds-of-Prey**

Altaïr's safe house was small and a little shabby, but it was in a quiet little neighbourhood at the edges of San Antonio. It was dark when they arrived and for all they knew, no one was paying them any attention.

"Now this," Desmond observed. "Is the strangest thing I have ever seen."

He thought he heard Lucy actually cover a snigger with a cough, but maybe she really just had choked. Across the table, Altaïr merely shrugged. A piece of pizza was delicately balanced on his fingers, cheese trailing down his hand as it did on Desmond's own.

"There is very little strange about eating pizza," he said.

Desmond popped an olive into his mouth as if it was somehow a gesture of triumph. "But you are who you are," he said. "I mean..." Desmond's voice faded uncertainly. He wasn't sure how to adequately explain the kind of contradicting emotions in his head. His senses had dulled to unexpected events to the point where he barely noticed how hair-raising everything actually was. But this? Here he was, in 2012, sitting at a table with a Master Assassin from the Third Crusade, eating pizza with olives, tuna and extra cheese. Oh, yes, and the end of the world had been prophesied to _another _ancestor of his by the goddess Minerva. How much more surreal could it all still get?

"Who else should I be?" Altaïr asked. His tone was light, but there was something darker underneath it. Desmond met his gaze across the table and he thought there was still some connection between them, or maybe it was part of his new Assassin senses. For no more than an instant, Desmond thought he could see the enormous span of time that lay behind Altaïr. A reflection, or an echo behind the hard, unreadable gold in his eyes. There was a sense of loss and, wrapped around it like a serpent around its prey, was far less human, something almost cruel.

"Someone who eats pizza without getting tomato on their shirt?" Desmond asked with a grin he didn't entirely feel.

Lucy masked another snigger.

"I don't know about you," Desmond said, pushing the pizza box away from him. "But I'm totally going to use the shower."

"You can have one of the bedrooms," Altaïr said and Lucy nodded.

"Thanks," Desmond got up. Sleeping in the car and the sparring with Altaïr had left him sore all over. Some hot water and a proper bed was the most beautiful thing in recent memory.

When Desmond left, Altaïr got up and opened one of the shelves. It was nearly empty save for a small pack of coffee.

Lucy watched him in silence for a while as he prepared the coffee. When it was brewing and its strong scent slowly filled the kitchen she said, "A gentleman would leave the other bedroom to the lady."

"Yes, he would," Altaïr replied. He had turned around, leaned against the counter beside the coffee machine. "But what about two Assassins?"

Lucy smiled a little. "I think two Assassins can manage to share a bed without molesting each other, don't you agree?"

He bent his head, casting his face in sudden shadow, just enough to hide a smirk as it crossed his face. "Indeed."

"So what's the plan for tomorrow?" Lucy asked after a moment.

"We cross the border," he said. "I still have a few sets of clean IDs so that shouldn't be a problem. Normally I would say we should split up until we reach the airport, but too much might go wrong and I don't intent to go hunting for either of you two."

Lucy nodded. "At this point, I'm not asking what we'll do once we land."

"Sooner or later, Vidic and the men behind him will work out where we are going," Altaïr observed. "Desmond is a special case, but hardly the only one with useful information. Someone else will point them in the right direction."

"You think we'll have to fight," Lucy observed. "And soon, too."

"Of course," he replied. "But then, you aren't really surprised by that, are you?"

Desmond stuck his head in. Water was dripping from his damp hair and steam was wafting off his skin. He had a towel wrapped around his hips. "Bathroom's free," he informed them. "I'm off to bed."

"Thank you, Desmond," Lucy said. "Sleep tight."

Altaïr offered a quick salute with his cup but Desmond was already gone.

They drank the coffee in silence, Lucy lost in her own contemplation, in the calculation of what was before them, hindered only by the presence of too many variables. Briefly, she wondered how Altaïr's ancient mind might work, but found the point too moot to dwell on it for long.

"The one you've been talking to," Lucy said. "Your cell is safe, isn't it?"

"For as long as the Templars don't know I still exist," he nodded.

"Could I contact Rebecca and Shaun with it?"

He seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if he disliked the idea for some reason but there was no good excuse to deny her.

He pulled the small device from his pocket and handed it to her across the table. "Just re-dial the last number. You should be fine."

She switched the cellphone on. She heard Altaïr dispose of both their cups in the sink and announce that he was going to take a shower now. Distractedly, she only nodded. The lure was great to use the opportunity to look through whatever else might be saved on the phone. Much to her dismay, however, she found the thing completely devoid of anything. The address book was empty, no mails, no dates, no nothing. Nothing had ever been done with this phone but call that one number.

She hit the connect button and waited. After a moment, "Yes?"

It wasn't a voice she recognised. Distinctively male and with a hint of accent, but its cadences were similar to both Altaïr's and Desmond's. "I'm Lucy Stillman, I need to talk to Shaun."

"He's sleeping, but I can give you Rebecca."

"Just as well," Lucy said and added, "Ezio, isn't it?"

"Don't make it sound so commonplace, love." There was a quiet chuckle. "Rebecca now."

Something brushed past the phone and Rebecca hissed a quick curse. "Oh my god Lucy! I'm so glad you are fine! You'll never believe who is with us!"

Lucy pulled a wry grin, let it bleed into her voice. "I think we've had a similar experience."

* * *

Desmond dreamt.

The desert stretched to the horizon and the sun above had an odd tone, wrong and too bright and too hot. It seemed to scorch the earth even then. Men were lumbering slowly through the dusty, white sand. They wore something that looked like spacesuits and they dragged corpses after them to a great pile of other dead. The sun flared, blanked Desmond's vision as if he was still in the Animus and skipping part of a memory. The men tossed their corpses on top of the others and Desmond could see their faces exposed and dead in the sun. Hideously disfigured with black-caked blood to further soil them. Altaïr, empty-eyed, part of his jaw seemingly torn away and his arms ripped off and the skin and flesh hung in tatters from his chest. Ezio with his head almost completely ripped away, hanging only by skin and flesh. His spine was white in the sun, ripped upwards, the way it would when someone tried to pry it from his body.

The stone lion prowled at a certain distance, like a scavenger waiting to move in once the living had withdrawn elsewhere. A gust of wind ripped sand from the ground, brushing it acidly over the pile of corpses. The white bird seemed to flutter in it, but again Desmond couldn't be quite sure whether it was really a dove or not. It moved too fast and seemed to be shifting into and out of existence.

On the pile of corpses, Desmond thought he saw Lucy and Rebecca and Shaun, all disfigured in some inhuman and gruesome way. The bird scooped low, crossed the path of the lion. The lion watched it for a moment and than its paw snapped up lightning fast to crush the bird against the ground. It lost interest in the bird after that, preferring the grander feast of the dead. The men in the spacesuits were gone and the lion jumped into the pile of corpses like a child into a pile of toys. The lion seemed to grow as it sprung. It was large enough to fit all the dead between its jaws by the time it landed.

Desmond woke with the lurching of his stomach. He sat up abruptly, heaving. The scent of death clung to the insides of his nostrils. He gagged and tasted bile.

"Shit," he muttered. The clock beside his bed informed him it was just past 2 am. He cursed again. Blindly he fumbled for the light and switched it on. The dream still lurked at the edge of his vision and he wouldn't have been surprised to find the stone lion sitting in front of his bed to leer at him. Instead the room looked just as ordinary as it had before, the same dark carpet and the clothes he had strewn around carelessly last night in his haste to finally get into the longed-for shower. Everything looked normal and boring.

"The world is ending," he growled. "Normal and boring, my ass."

He dragged himself from the bed and padded across the room. His stomach still felt unsteady and images of the carnage seemed to be flickering behind his eyes every time he blinked.

He didn't switch on the light in the hallway, what spilled from his room was enough to find the bathroom. Leaning over the sink he let water pour over his head, the cold shocking him back into reality, which, much to his dismay, was just as bizarre as it had been last time he'd checked.

"So much for sleep," he muttered. Not that he couldn't use some sleep or anything, but he guessed he would soon enough grow out of that habit.

With the water off and his mind much more awake than it had been, he became aware that the flat was not in complete silence at all, as by rights it should be at this ungodly hour.

"Just great," was all that came to mind. Sourly relieved that they had found some non-lethal way to work out the tension between them. Was there a word for when your eight-hundred-years old forefather stole your girl? And he wasn't even the pre-Casanova Italian one, either, but no doubt his appearance was already scheduled. Desmond walked back through the hallway, stopping by Lucy's half-open door. Not that he could see much from this angle apart from an edge of the bed and moving shadows.

He hesitated for no more than a moment, just the time it took for him to realise that really, there was nothing left to lose. Besides, he hadn't been particularly obvious about his growing feelings for Lucy so he couldn't blame her for disregarding them.

"Hey, sorry guys," Desmond said, pounding his fist against the doorway a few times before he pushed the door open. He wasn't really all that sorry, if he was honest.

The scene before him should be titillating and under normal circumstance it doubtlessly would have been. The starlight was bright as it flooded the room. It made Lucy's white skin shine with the pale shimmer of sweat and her hair glow. She looked like a porcelain doll against Altaïr's darker shape. The starlight cast him in stark contrasts between silver and cinnamon, smoothly muscled back and defined arch of the spine.

But the dream still clung to Desmond's mind and the two perfect bodies on the bed kept shifting and transforming. Skin peeling away to reveal rotten flesh and bleached white bone, banishing every other impression completely.

Lucy slowly relaxed her grip on Altaïr's shoulders, letting her head rest against him as they both looked towards the door.

Desmond thought he should be blushing, but found that he was hardly in the mood. There were more important things at stake here. "We must talk," he said.

"What, now?" Lucy asked. There was a drawl in her voice Desmond had never heard before.

Desmond only shrugged. "Might as well," he said airily and turned around. "It wasn't like I interrupted you at something important, was it?"

He didn't want to stay, then. Not when any movement by either of them would reveal too much of Lucy's naked form. And at this point he wasn't sure whether it would make him jealous or vomit. Desmond turned and stalked into the kitchen. Tiredness was crawling back over him in the company of the worst headache he had ever had. His stomach was still queasy and he still smelt death, now and again. He had thought of making coffee but the mere thought made him gag.

"So?" Altaïr asked walking soundlessly into the room on bare feet. He had put his jeans back on, leaving plenty of opportunity to see the faint discolourations the night's activities had left on his skin. His mood was hard to judge.

"Really, I _am_ sorry," Desmond said again and meant it this time. "It's just... I don't know."

"Talk," Altaïr said, pulled a chair from the table and sat down, giving Desmond an encouraging, but vaguely impatient look.

Desmond glanced at the door. "Lucy...?" he began uncertainly.

"Desmond, _talk_," Altaïr repeated. Desmond thought he heard a condescending note there, something fatherly that didn't suit Altaïr at all, not looking the way he did.

Desmond took a breath, sat down on the counter. "I've had these strange dreams for a few days. At first I thought my brain was just in overdrive, with the entire Animus thing. Sort of makes sense, doesn't it? But it's... too weird for that. Are you sure there is no prophecy?"

"You think you are experiencing visions," Altaïr observed.

"Don't make me sound like a nut-job, okay?" Desmond said, but he hung his shoulders. "I'm not sure what else it could possibly be."

Altaïr said nothing for a long moment. "What did you see?"

"Weird things," Desmond began and realised that he wasn't making a very good case. "I can't make sense of most of it. But there are two constants. A stone lion, only it's alive and hungry and then there is a white bird which I can't see clearly at all. It could be a dove, I think. And the lion keeps eating it."

"It's not a dove," Lucy said from the doorway. She wore pyjamas several sizes too large, her hair was wild around her face and there was still a pinkish flush to her cheeks. "I think it might be an eagle."

"How do you know?" Desmond asked.

"It was in the Animus a few times," she said. "The lion, the bird and a lot of gore. They were like glitches. Rebecca thought they were echoes of other memories that got mixed up with the ones we were retrieving."

"But I'm only having them since I'm _out_ of the Animus," Desmond pointed out.

"It doesn't necessarily mean it's not an aftereffect," Lucy was talking slowly, as if she puzzled it out herself while she spoke. "The images could have been transmitted on a subconscious level while you were in the Animus and your brain is only now bringing them back, just _because _you have been out of the Animus and had time to settle a little."

Desmond raked his hands down his face. "Why do they look like visions?"

"The human brain is meant to search for patterns," Lucy said. "It will suggest meaning where there is none."

"Or," Altaïr said very slowly, letting each word drop like a lid on a coffin. "We have been wrong for all that time. There is a truth and we just failed to see it."

Past the fingers that still covered his face, Desmond saw Lucy snap her head around and stare at Altaïr in open disbelieve. In Desmond's addled state, it took him a moment to understand what he saw in her face, but when it did come to him he felt his throat constrict. The feeling of betrayal had written itself across Lucy's pale face. She was an Assassin, after all, no matter what had changed since Altaïr's time and there were very few things that held any sort of weight at all for that kind. Words drifted past his mind, fresh as if they had been uttered to him only days before and not been spoken to a man five centuries past.

_Where other men blindly follow the truth, remember..._

"You don't believe that," she said, the words fell from her lips without inflection.

Altaïr only shrugged, carelessly, as if he had said the most ordinary thing in the world.

"It would mean we are nothing but murderers," she said. Growing desperation laced her voice. Desmond found it uncharacteristic for her, so much he wondered for a moment whether he was still stuck in the dream somehow. Then again, perhaps there wasn't much of a mystery. He had known Lucy for less than a month. He could not in all honesty claim to know what truly mattered to her and what would make her world crumble around her. It was easy to imagine, however, that any Assassin would feel betrayed if the greatest of them all told her everything she had ever followed in her life was nothing but a lie.

"You are never a murderer in a war," Altaïr said.

Desmond let his hands drop from his face to watch Altaïr, whose attention was fixed on Lucy with an almost compassionate expression.

"Besides," Altaïr added. "You are a scientist. It _would _explain some of the things that happened, so we can't reject the possibility out of hand."

Lucy looked past him, down on the floor. Dust had covered in the corners. Safe houses, ideally, didn't see much use and if they did, people probably had better things to do than clean. The silence was uncomfortable and Desmond, exhausted in the aftermath of the dream and still somewhat unsure of his feelings about Altaïr and Lucy, felt like someone kept trying to pull the floor away from under him. Strange, then, that the solution to the dilemma seemed crystal clear, spelt out right in front of him like the mythical writing on the wall.

He cleared his throat. It felt parched and he feared if the silence lasted any longer he would choke in it. "He doesn't believe it," Desmond said. Very few things had come through the Animus with the solidity of this one certainty. "You don't live centuries following something you don't believe in," Desmond continued. Altaïr's still calm face betrayed a measure of smugness, but Lucy had turned her head to look at Desmond.

"It's still a possibility," Altaïr insisted gently.

Lucy took a breath, pulling herself together. "Yeah, right," she forced out finally. "I'll ask Rebecca to check the data. Perhaps there is some significance to this which we've missed."

She turned to the door and left without another word, looking about as tired as Desmond felt.

"Well..." Desmond began and slipped from the counter. "I can offer a pillow and a blanket. But I gotta warn you, no cuddling."

Altaïr shrugged again. "I certainly hope so," he said earnestly.

"I didn't think you'd have a sense of humour," Desmond remarked as Altaïr trailed him to his bedroom. It was easier to crack a joke of some kind, _anything _so he didn't have to think of going back to sleep where fresh images of carnage waited for him.

Altaïr didn't respond to the quip. "There is a lot you don't know."

Desmond heard himself make a low-throated growl, fuelled by tiredness and frustration. For some reason, it earned him a pat on the shoulder.

* * *

Desmond did dream, but it wasn't what he had feared. Instead, he found himself cradled securely in someone's arms with his perspective oddly askew. He was looking at a ceiling, large, grey stones. A woman's voice was close and instinctively he felt comforted by her presence.

Another face swam into his rather limited field of vision. Harsh and square, weathered and aged before his time, the man had piercing dark eyes, but they exuded nothing but warmth then.

"And there I thought the father was bad enough," he was saying, though the fondness overshadowed his exasperation.

Laughing, the woman said, "And you expected something else?"

The man pulled a wry grin. "Not really. Stubbornness apparently breeds well."

Darkness came after that, but for once there was nothing threatening waiting in it, no stone lions and mutilated corpses, just sweet, blissful rest engulfing his worn-out mind. He slept rather like a babe in its mother's arms.

* * *

_"And cast their bodies to the dogs and birds-of-prey" paraphrased from The Iliad by Homer_

* * *

**Author's Note: **Somehow, I feel a little uncertain of this part. And, like Desmond, I'm not really sure what I think about Altaïr and Lucy.


	5. La Morte Mi Troverà Vivo

**Chapter 5: La Morte Mi Troverà Vivo**

Desmond was the last to wake up, but at least he felt refreshed for the first time in recent memory. He sat up on the bed and stretched his arms out over his head. Autumn sunlight streamed in through the window as if in response to his mood. He rolled around lazily until his mind was so awake he could no longer ignore reality seeping back. In its wake, unbidden, came memories of last night of the horror and latent embarrassment. He groaned, staring at the ceiling before he dared a careful, one-eyed look at the clock.

He sat up abruptly. Short before noon. "The hell?" he asked of the empty room and let himself fall back again.

But his relaxed state refused to return now that blissful ignorance had fled from him. With another sigh, he rolled out of bed and gave the slightly crumpled sheets on Altaïr's side of the bed a critical stare. It would have been nice to actually see Altaïr sleep, to see what it did to his composed face, but there was no such luck.

He had left the dresser open and it seem confusingly uncharacteristical right until Desmond got the pointer about fresh clothes. Altaïr's most likely were going to fit him.

From the hallway, he heard Lucy talking on speaker with Rebecca and Shaun. When Desmond walked in, she lifted her head and gave him a distracted smile.

"Morning, Desmond," she said.

Desmond stopped in the doorway and watched her for a moment. She had her laptop set up on the table, using Altaïr's cellphone to connect with Rebecca, no doubt hunting for his white eagle and stone lion.

"Lucy..." he began.

She stopped, her fingers hovering above the keyboard and looked at him for a long minute.

"Rebecca? I'll call you back." She cut the connection before Rebecca had any time to respond.

Desmond walked into the kitchen and started going through the cabinets. "It makes sense, of course," he said laconically. "He's this great mystery and all."

"Desmond, you are babbling," she said, but he heard her tension.

He only shrugged, opened another cabinet only to find a lonely plate. "What I'm saying is, I really can't blame you. Hell, I probably would go for it, too." He wagged his head from side to side. "Ah, well, if we weren't related, that is. And he wasn't a guy, but..."

He heard the scrap of the chair as she turned around to look at him. "But?"

He closed the last cabinet and turned around. "I'm just sorry I didn't ask you on a date when I still had a chance."

There, it was out and if he now stopped feeling like an awkward schoolboy he would be eternally grateful. Lucy put her head to the side and smiled. "When would that have been?" she asked. "Before or after you got yourself stuck in a global conspiracy?"

He gave her an answering, lopsided grin. "Good question."

Lucy swivelled in her seat. "So, now that we've got that out of the way, Rebecca found your eagle."

Desmond still stared at the back of her head. "Altaïr really does believe in what the Creed teaches," he said quietly.

He doubted she was much bothered by him walking in on them last night. Only later, Altaïr had cut a wound and while she seemed composed enough now, Desmond still remembered the shocked look she had had last night.

He kept watching the back of her head. He felt like he _should_ say something about that at least, but he wasn't sure how welcome any remark would be.

"And you tell me this why?" she asked.

"Because it hurt you hearing him say something else and it certainly wasn't fair to spring it on you right... afterwards."

"So even if he believes," she countered a little impatiently. "It might only mean we both have dedicated our lives to a stupid cause. Except, it doesn't bother him." She moved her head, glanced at Desmond from the corners of her eyes. "Yes, which in turn bothers_ me_."

"Don't worry," he said, strangely aware of how they had switched roles. "Look, I know what I'm saying. I've been inside his head. I know a few things. Not everything, mind, but this one, there is no doubt at all. There never was and I'd bet my life there still isn't."

Lucy had gone still while he spoke. Eventually, he saw her nod. It was a nearly imperceptible motion, but some of the tension left her.

"So, do we have _anything _to eat at all?" Desmond asked and opened the fridge. It was empty and furthermore switched off.

"Coffee," Lucy said. She called Rebecca.

"Again?" Desmond asked.

"Black," Lucy clarified. "But Altaïr has gone to the gas station, maybe he'll remember to bring something to eat."

"Hello again," Rebecca announced, "Good you are back. I'm sending you the rest right now."

"Thanks," Lucy said. "Desmond? Can you look these over?"

Desmond leaned over Lucy's shoulder. Thumbnails of images were spread out on the screen. Even this small, he could tell they were the white bird he had thought was a dove. As Lucy zoomed in, however, it became clear that it was indeed an eagle and a large one at that. It was perfectly white, only its eyes, talons and beak were black.

"That's not a real bird," Desmond observed.

"You don't say," Shaun's voice sneered. "And there was me wasting hours of my life on _making sure_ that there is no such species. Next time, I'll save myself the trouble."

"But that means it cannot be a memory, can it?" Desmond asked.

"It could still be mangled data," Rebecca said. "Or it could be the memory of a dream or fantasy, even if that's unlikely."

"Why unlikely?" Desmond asked.

"Because their imprints would be too faint," Lucy answered. "That's why sometimes details are off, it's not just the programme itself. Not every minuscule thing ever done is reprinted in the DNA."

"Making sure you probably leave precious little to your poor descendants," Shaun added.

"That was rude," Rebecca said and there was the sound of a historian receiving a shove.

"What about the lion?" Desmond asked.

"We have no clear images at all," Rebecca said. "I have a theory about that one, but it's still a bit vague."

"So what _does _it all mean?" Desmond asked.

"Your guess is as good as mine," Lucy said. "It all depends on where the images come from originally. If they are memories, then they probably are just part of the bleeding effect and should fade in due course."

"And if they are not?"

"What if," Shaun remarked dryly. "Is a game for scholars."

"We'll tell you when we know something," Rebecca assured him.

Desmond kept lingering around the kitchen, hands wrapped around the cup of black coffee and watching Lucy work from behind her. The images on her screen were disquieting to say the least. He had got used to having things dragged out of his mind and saved onto a computer, but this was different. This was a nightmare suddenly given its own kind of reality. Sometimes he thought the eagle's eyes were following him.

He could tell he distracted Lucy, but before she could say anything, Altaïr suddenly appeared in the doorway like an apparition. The floorboards were creaky, but somehow that put nothing of a hamper on the Assassin's soundless movements. He carried a paper-bag, which he then went to deposit on the counter.

"Finally awake, Desmond?" he asked and it was very difficult to tell what he thought.

"Yes, thanks, but I thought we had no time to waste?"

Altaïr met Lucy's gaze for a moment, then said, "You could use the rest. Let's not confuse our priorities. But since you are awake, come with me."

* * *

Desmond followed Altaïr into the living room. It furniture had been sparse to start with. A large couch, a glass table and a TV-set on a low counter opposite the couch, a circular carpet between them.

Without pausing, Altaïr picked up the table and put it aside.

"Another round of beat-the-bartender?" Desmond asked. He didn't wait for the answer he knew would be coming but dropped down to roll up the carpet.

Altaïr chuckled. Desmond was slowly getting used to these shows of emotion from his ancestor, but not enough so he didn't give him a quick look.

"If you don't like it, then fight," Altaïr said lightly. Knowing, perhaps, that voices from the past whispered that selfsame demand into Desmond's mind even now.

Desmond already knew how it would play out. He felt his mood darken under the prospect and it did something strange with his mind. He knew it was the bleeding effect. Altaïr and Lucy had let him sleep, rightly thinking he needed it, but they had not been aware - how could they - of what happened when he slept. His mental defences would go down, allowing all the memories of lives past to seep in, stronger and clearer than they otherwise had a chance to.

Now, however, not relishing the thought of being beaten again and again, Desmond willingly let it all come to him. He let his body move, trying not to think too much, because his consciousness would only get in the way.

It worked, within limits. The moment Altaïr noticed Desmond managed to avoid a blow, he upped the speed. He saw Desmond mimicking a movement and abruptly changed the angle and pulled a feint until Desmond drew his lips back from his teeth in someone else's indignant snarl. He really shouldn't have wasted time on it, because his feet suddenly were gone from under him and he fell.

Braced for the inevitable impact, Desmond almost missed how his arms shot back, wrists strained under the sudden pressure and pain shot up to his shoulders. But he had caught the fall and rather than stop there, he rolled to the side and regained his feet. It wasn't quite the practised move he had seen Altaïr or Lucy execute, but exhilaration bathed his brain anyway. It propelled him forward in a feral jump at Altaïr, who had to take a defensive step back for the first time, but Desmond didn't let up. He couldn't think as fast as he was moving just then and he had absolutely no idea what he was doing.

Later, he thought, if he had believed the blow would land, he would have used more strength. As it was, his reach was too short to catch Altaïr's nimble evasion, but not too short for Desmond's fist to connect with Altaïr's jaw. Someone chuckled coldly at the back of Desmond's mind.

Altaïr's head was jolted and Desmond had time to see a quick flare in his eyes - anger or pain, there was no time to be sure. Altaïr gripped Desmond's hand and twisted harshly, leaving Desmond no choice but to turn with it or have his arm broken. Altaïr's second hand closed on his neck like a vice and a kick at the back of his knee made him buckle.

Normally, at this point, Altaïr would let go and step back, but this time he kept pushing until Desmond was overbalanced on his knees and held only upright by the bruising grip on his arm and neck.

Altaïr leaned forward over Desmond, until he was close enough that Desmond could feel his breathe against the side of his face.

"I think," Altaïr said softly, "we can start with the knives."

And let go so suddenly, Desmond nearly fell over.

"Knives?" Desmond asked and made no attempt to stand up. He sat back and crossed his legs under him. "Isn't that a bit old-fashioned? What use is a knife against a gun?"

"Not much, but they are different kinds of weapons. Guns are best used at a distance, knives when you are up and close to your opponent."

Altaïr walked around and sat down at the edge of the couch, hands dangling relaxed between his knees as he watched Desmond. "Swords have gone out of fashion, unfortunately. Too large and too obvious for these times. But knives? At worst, a bullet will cut a hole through someone, but only a knife can be used to gut someone."

"You make it sound downright lovely," Desmond said. He felt inordinately proud of his knuckle-marks on Altaïr's jaw as they turned from white to red.

"Oh, it is," Altaïr said as if he was oblivious to the sarcasm.

Creaking in the hallway announced Lucy a moment before she walked in.

"Congratulations," she said with a pointed look at Altaïr's face.

"Don't," Desmond lifted an arm and waved dismissively. "Now we will have fun with knives."

Altaïr looked amused and something unspoken passed between him and Lucy. It occurred to Desmond that there was no tension at all anymore, not the frost he had expected. They must have talked when he was still sleeping. He wondered what kind of agreement they had reached between them.

"Rebecca is tracing the code of the eagle," Lucy said. "It'll take some time, I'd imagine. How long do you think you'll need?"

"Until I'm shish kebab?" Desmond asked. "Two minutes, maybe, if he doesn't try too hard."

"You aren't doing so bad," Lucy said smiling. Desmond thought she might even mean what she that.

"My jaw agrees," Altaïr added.

"Lucky shot," Desmond said. It wasn't, quite. It was the combined knowledge that had bled into his mind in the last weeks. It were those early lessons of his parents which he never taken seriously and from which he had walked away before they became meaningful. And, most of all, it was the frustration slowly raking up an impressive measure and the slow-burning anger at his own helplessness.

Desmond felt Lucy's searching gaze on him and gave her a quick smile, doubting it would have fool anyone.

"Shaun says we should watch the news," she said.

Desmond frowned. He didn't get up, only turned around on the floor while Altaïr leaned back on the couch and gripped the remote from where it was wedged in the cushioning.

"... of currently up to 76 %," the newscaster said earnestly. "The recent outbreaks in Monclova and Monterrey have reached an estimated number of 1900 people in the last week alone. Due to the high risk of infection, the American government has decided to temporary close all border traffic to Mexico."

"Shit," Lucy said.

"That's about us?" Desmond asked. "But even the Templars can't engineer a Jungle Flu outbreak!"

There was silence from the two Assassins. The news continued with the most recent developments in the Great Middle Eastern War - two bombs thrown on Jerusalem, Desmond heard it distantly, because the name meant too much to him.

"Or is it?" Desmond added, looking over his shoulder. Lucy had taken a seat on the armrest.

"The Jungle Flu is an artificial virus," Lucy said slowly. "It was created in an Abstergo laboratory. Many people are actually infected, but the virus can be switched on and off at will."

Desmond blinked as the truth sank in with the speed of continental drift. "But almost everyone dies of Jungle Flu! That's genocide! And you are saying they use it as a... what? A distraction?"

Lucy's face was blank. She had never seemed more distant to him than in that moment. No compassion, no nothing at all. Desmond wasn't the most informed person in the history of the world, but a few things were difficult to escape. The Jungle Flu had emerged a little over a year ago, it was difficult to treat and vaccination was only patchily effective.

"A friend of mine, Leila, worked on it before she was transferred to the Animus Project. It's a good way to get governments to do certain things without having to actively pull some strings. It cannot be traced back. Abstergo knows the location of some of those Temples. They cannot know where we are going exactly, but this way, they hem us in."

Desmond wanted to ask her whether she was really aware of what she was telling him. It was one thing to suspect all kinds of evil schemes, but something else to be told its precise shape and extent.

He let his shoulders sag. "I was going to ask whether there was any food in that paper-bag, but I think I've lost my appetite." He took a deep breath, looking up at them. The bright sunshine suddenly seemed dulled and grey now, because of the world on which it shone.

"The real question is, what do we do now?"

Altaïr put his head to the side in an eagle's gesture. "Illegal immigrants and smugglers have crossed that border countless times in the past, no matter what measures have been taken. Who is to stop _us _from doing the same?"

* * *

Ezio stood in front of the car with a length of black velvet spread out on the hood. He gave the cloudy sky a critical glare and put a cigarette into the corner of his mouth. Casually, he slipped off both Hidden Blades and began to disassemble it, carefully wrapping each delicate piece in gossamer.

Watching him through the front window, Shaun said, "And this will go onto an aeroplane?" he asked.

"It usually does," Ezio said without looking up from his work. "I'm a clockmaker. Most people have never seen a clockmaker." He issued a quick, sardonic laugh. "People seem to think watches come from mail order catalogues, not people."

"Oh brave new world?" Shaun asked.

"What? Hardly. You see, I've never had anything like cultural shock. I grew into this, if that's what you are wondering."

He paused and looked up, caught Shaun's gaze through the glass. "If there is something that bothers you, feel free to talk."

Shaun narrowed his eyes, a little annoyed at the presumption, but he said, "How did you do it?"

Ezio shrugged elegantly. "I did nothing. Something of me was left in the Vault, that's how it was explained to me." He took a drag from the cigarette, stubbed ashes away into the wind. "I don't understand how these things work. They puzzled Leonardo and Altaïr has had so much more time and dedication to study these pieces of Eden. I left the Vault and I never aged a day after that."

"Are there others?" Shaun asked.

"Apart from Altaïr? Not to my knowledge."

Ezio resumed his work in silence for a moment, then added, "But Altaïr is better qualified to answer that. I wanted no part in this."

Behind Shaun, Rebecca made a surprise sound and then cursed. She had not paid attention to their conversation, still hunting for Desmond's elusive dreams.

"Why did you help us, then?"

"You can't always do what you want," Ezio said simply.

There was an edge in Ezio's voice then, a clear indication that he disliked the direction of the conversation, despite how he had invited it himself. And Shaun let it be at that, too, simply because it was a courtesy he would have demanded for himself as well.

Just as Ezio was done and tied the velvet sheath closed, it started to rain in a slow, frosty drizzle. The closest to snow they had had that year.

* * *

_"La morte mi troverà vivo." (Death will find me alive) Italian Proverb_

* * *

**Author's Note: **All place names have been chosen more or less randomly after a glance at google maps.

Also, there is so much wrong with this part, I don't even know where to begin. Tell me what you think.


	6. For Rarely Are Sons

**Please note: **I've made a few changes. We now have chapter titles (and lovely pompous ones at that!). Also, there is a slightly longish intro on the first chapter, stating a few basics for your - and my - convenience. So, with administration out of the way...

Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 6: For Rarely Are Sons Similar to Their Fathers**

The American-Mexican border had featured in many stories in its day, as if it marked a gate of paradise, one way or another. As if, somehow, one simple step across an invisible line in desert sand would make all the difference.

Listening to those stories, one might almost believe that no one ever crossed this border without breaking a law. Smugglers, of drugs or money or people, had made a fortune in this place and doubtlessly would make more with every day the future progressed into the past.

All its myth was now overshadowed by the completion of a border fence. Years upon years of planning, of votes and election and diplomatic storms had gone into it. Now it stood, from east to west - or its reverse, depending on where your point of view lies - a silvery line, invisible from space but traced almost reverently on every map.

Lucy had picked a small station. It wasn't really an official crossing. Tourists would use other routes and even if they accidentally stumbled into this lonelier area, crossing would be denied to them. This gate was meant for the military or for diplomats.

For two hours, Desmond sat alone in the car, watching a damply grey sunset slowly drench away all the colour from the world. Left on his own like this, he was thrown back on himself more than he had been in a long while. And in the silence around him he suddenly became aware of voices whispering at the back of his mind. It was a little as if he was receiving some kind of radio transmission from far away, too faint to make out words but suddenly too loud to blank out completely. After what Lucy kept saying, he had thought these things would weaken the longer he was out of the Animus, but the reverse seemed to be true. It came back when fighting in force, as if his ancestors just couldn't handle how terrible he did and took pity on him to guide him. Now they seemed to collectively bristle at the thought of playing decoy for Altaïr and Lucy, but perhaps that was just his imagination going into overdrive before his nerves frazzled.

The problem was to actually get at the border guards. Secured on both sides by the fence, they had to open the door for the Assassin. Any contact with the fence would cause an alarm to go off and set every border patrol in a fifty mile radius on their heels.

With nothing to do apart from listening to the voices, Desmond wondered idly how many times an animal caused a frenzy among the guards. If there were any animals left in the region, of course. Building of the fence hadn't been gentle to the environment cutting a long, deep scar in the middle of the land and leaving the land of both sides of the border in a worse state than it had been.

Before the other two had set off, Lucy had spent some time on getting Desmond into a rather desolate state. The acrid smell from his singed sweater still hung in the car, despite the open doors. One sleeve was torn off now and Lucy's had smeared two entire red lipsticks around the side of his face and neck. He supposed he looked like a bad movie prop, but in the shaky twilight he could just possibly pass as victim of an accident. It wasn't the most brilliant plan he had ever heard, but simple didn't necessarily equal bad. All they needed to do, Altaïr had said, was to get the guards to open the door and half an inch was wide enough for a blade. This station had made six men, if it was fully manned and considering the panic about the Jungle Flu it probably was. Still, Desmond didn't doubt Altaïr and Lucy could handle them and the only worry was whether they could do it fast enough.

Giving his watch a quick look, Desmond fished the binocular from his side and swung himself out of the car.

"What a misnomer," he muttered to himself. Calling this structure a fence made it sound rather harmless, while in fact it was a solid wall of steel concrete with barbed wire coils to give it an even more inviting appearance. It was too high to climb and the surface offered no purchase even for someone skilled in free-climbing.

Two towers overlooked the fence at the crossing and armed men were visible against the still brighter sky. The lights were already on around the perimeters, but in the quick falling twilight gloom there always came that moment of balance. Somehow, the human eye failed to adjust then, making it difficult to focus.

Desmond got out of the car and started walking slowly, leisurely. He wore the brace of a hidden blade under his one remaining sleeve. It felt surprisingly heavy, making his wrist uncommonly stiff even though the weapon was too elegantly designed to over any real obstruction to movement. He lifted the hand in front of his face and carefully flexed his fingers and the blade shot up so fast he nearly jumped in surprise. His heart had jumped, but it refused to slow down for a moment longer than it should. The blade seemed to glow in the fading light, almost as if it winked at him and then drew back in its sheath a little slower than it had sprang out.

Desmond let his arm drop. It was an alien thing there on his arm. He had barely worn the weapon and used it only once in earnest, but it had an additional layer of feeling there. Another part of him was comforted by its presence, by the reassuring power resting against his wrist. A miniature demon willing to skewer his enemies at the flick of his hand.

Strangely enough, the whispering seemed to have faded to something of a quiet hissing when he had put it on.

He experimented with a stumble that probably made him look like a video game zombie. He walked slowly. It was difficult to gauge the distance and from how close he could be spotted so he thought it better to get into the act as early as possible.

Was it legal for the border guards to shoot him? He pulled a face and wavered in his step. Definitely should have paid more attention to the news there, he thought, should have listened to the radio instead of your own madness.

He reached the lit perimeter and stopped carefully, stood swaying unsteadily on his feet. The lipstick had dried dust to his skin, making it flake as he lifted one arm and waves.

"Hello?" he croaked and bent over coughing. He looked up from his position and saw movement on the narrow gangway above the closed gate. He tried not to think of Lucy and Altaïr. They had to be close, though, along the side of the wall sliding towards the door at the side of the gate, ready to spring.

"Stay right there!" someone called from the tower.

"We had an accident!" Desmond yelled and gestured vaguely back the way he'd come from. "My girlfriend... she's... I don't know. You must help me!"

There was more movement. Desmond tried to straighten, coughed and wiped his hand over his face, smearing the lipstick. He felt like praying, but didn't know whether there was a deity willing to listen to would-be Assassins.

There was more movement. Desmond saw Lucy, slender and graceful against the concrete wall, careful not to set off its alarm. The darker shadow had to be Altaïr, then. Desmond did his best not to look at her.

"Wait!" someone called, a different voice. "Don't worry, mate!"

Only a moment later the door in the fence opened. It was narrow, only wide enough to allow a big man uncomfortable movement with his gun slung over his back. He hurried toward Desmond, paying no heed to the door behind him. Another armed man appeared in it only a moment later, blocking the way completely.

"Sorry," Desmond said at the approaching man. "I'm going..." He folded forward slowly and saw the man make a quick leap to catch him.

"Jesus, mate," the man said. "Don't worry, the cavalry is here."

Desmond let his body hang limply against the border guard. Past the man, Desmond saw movement at the door. Altaïr, in black and deadly reached forward with lightning speed, plunged the hidden blade in the man's throat and upward through his gum so he had no chance to utter a scream. Altaïr didn't pull his hand back but kept pushing the man back and through the door, Lucy at his heels.

Desmond took a breath. He wished desperately the man in front of him would seem so nice. Was it fair to kill someone because he had been the first to offer help? It was one of the strategies terrorists used, wasn't it?

"Can you stand, friend?" the soldier asked. "Must have walked quite a way."

Desmond groaned in response and shuffled up, pushing himself to his feet. "My girlfriend," he said and made an attempt to turn. There was still one guard visible on the tower who could still sound an alarm if he saw Desmond do something fishy.

"Yeah, we'll get you an ambulance and her, too, okay?" the border guard said.

Desmond nodded slowly and made one step forward. He didn't see the man on the tower fall or vanish.

Desmond took a deep breath and suddenly felt as weak as he pretended to be. The blood drained from his face and the other man saw, reached forward to forestall another fall. He was so focused, he didn't notice Desmond's expression change, only felt a weird little sting in his chest. It didn't even hurt that much at first, because the blade was so sharp. Desmond could read it, saw the surprise and the shock when it dawned on him what was happening. What _had _happened. The guard's grip on Desmond's arm slackened, abruptly, and he sank down to his knees, fell backward and was dead, unseeing eyes staring at the sky.

Desmond jolted back from him as if stung, shaking badly suddenly. This was different. He searched his brain for something similar, for other fights he had been in and the list wasn't long. A couple of teenage, testosterone bouts and a handful of bar brawls. Vidic's thugs who had fallen to that same blade. But the scenarios didn't match, somehow.

The border guard had not attacked him. This hadn't been a fight at all. Murder, he thought, was the only word he found that fit.

He clenched his teeth and gathered his resolve. He began walking toward the fence, but found he couldn't. There was something else to do before he was allowed to go.

It was almost as if he watched someone else, as he crouched down at the man's side and gently tucked his eyes shut. It felt strange, took more force than he had thought. Words came to him from faraway, though they were hardly unexpected.

"Requiescat in pace," he heard himself say.

He shifted back to his feet, his balance suddenly back and strength returning to his limbs despite the reigning confusion in hi head. He ran to the fence and through the door. He found the button on the inside that made it fall closed.

A small yard stretched out in front of him, just enough space for two parked jeeps. A dead border guard lay on the ground beside the door. Desmond didn't look at him.

Lucy sat behind the steering wheel of one of the jeeps. "We have half an hour before the next patrol comes by," she said. "Not enough time to get back to our car."

She had carried a small bag, just enough space for her laptop, small enough it didn't hamper her when she fought. She was about to say something else, but suddenly her face changed. "You look terrible."

Desmond faked a short laugh. "Method actor," he declared and climbed in the backseat.

He expected her to press the point, but while she keep looking at him she said nothing more.

The second gate opened and after a moment Altaïr appeared from inside the container to join them. He gave Desmond a long look, before he turned his back on him and Desmond was grateful for that. It was getting darker and it hid him from further scrutiny.

Only after an hour or so, Altaïr twisted in his seat and handed Desmond a piece of fine cloth. "You'll have to clean the blade," he said.

Desmond took the cloth and became suddenly, absurdly, aware of the blood that had seeped into his sleeve from the blade. It wasn't much of it, there hadn't been time, but he wasn't sure how he could possibly have forgotten about it.

"I'm no good at this," Desmond said. "I really am not."

"The killing?" Altaïr asked quietly.

"The _murder,_" Desmond stressed the word. It stung his tongue as he said it aloud. "There is very little I know about myself, especially these days, but I know I'm not a killer."

"Don't say that as if it was a bad thing."

Desmond glanced up at Altaïr, at what little he could see of his face and the enigmatic expression it bore.

Altaïr smiled, faint and wistful and Desmond he was only imagining it. Altaïr said, "You mustn't enjoy this. But some things need to be done, sometimes."

"I know what you think about it," Desmond said. "I've felt it. I'm not a killer, but you are."

Altaïr arched his brows, far from offended by the accusation, if he even understood it as such. "And it changes nothing about what I've said."

He turned back around and settled himself more comfortably in his seat. He said, "Clean the blade."

* * *

They ditched the jeep at the first opportunity. They had violently broken through the border fence and left six border guards dead behind. It wouldn't be long until they had someone on their tail. It didn't worry Lucy too much. Border police, regardless of which country they belonged to, lacked the skill to catch them. However, they had handed Abstergo their position on a silver platter and no doubt they had better people already on the move.

"We once had a base a day's drive from here," Lucy said. "We abandoned it when Abstergo found it. It's a private airfield now."

"Abstergo will know about it," Altaïr replied. "They will wait for us."

"It's still our best bet," Lucy said. She turned her head to exchanged a quick glance with him, then added, "I'm getting tired of running away."

Desmond was asleep in the backseat, curled up as well he could in the confined space. Restless, he kept moving around, sometimes whispering something inaudible.

When Altaïr made no answer, she said, "Can I ask you something else?"

"Go ahead," Altaïr said.

"The Piece of Eden," she began. "You knew how dangerous it was. And still you studied it."

"Someone would have anyway, sooner or later and just because I knew the risks I thought I was best suited to resist its temptation."

She said nothing. The irony was obvious, after all, otherwise he wouldn't be here now.

He continued, "I fared well, for a time. But age is always cruel, especially when you think there are important things that still need doing."

"You tried destroying it, though," she said.

"I believed if I destroyed it, it would be the end of all its horrors. I may even have been right, but the Apple resisted all my attempts. Besides, what of the others Pieces? What if they were found and used, by someone else? I could not leave it all, not with so much in the balance."

She sensed there was more, something else. Something, perhaps, less selfless as all that.

He shifted in his seat and she turned her head to find him looking directly at her. A slight smile curled his lips, softening the hard metal of his gaze a little. "Also, I was curious. Too much so, for my own good. A great mystery was put before me and than I was going to be denied to witness its solution. I did not like that. And so I chose to fight. All my life, that's what I did. So when I was dying, the decision to fight was easy."

She nodded, wordlessly and he settled back.

"What about Ezio?" Lucy asked. "And, while we are at it, who else of your descendants?"

"Someone once told me, stubbornness breeds well," Altaïr remarked. "But I doubt there are others, at least none that I know of. And Ezio? Ezio makes his own choices. I don't question him."

"So you always knew what the Prophet saw?" she asked. "And who he was?"

"Not quite. He told me, yes, but it made no more sense to me than it had to him. Until Subject 17 made his appearance in Abstergo's networks and in yours."

"That drew you out?"

"This was the ending I had hoped to see," he said slowly. "This is why the Piece of Eden could seduce me. Because I needed to be here, now."

And there had been sacrifices, she could tell without asking. Sacrifices and loss. She still resented the fact that he had abandoned the Assassins, but there was no doubting his honesty and dedication.

Desmond sat up and made a few careful attempts at stretching himself out. He gave a mighty yawn and then slumped back.

"Another nightmare?" Lucy asked.

She caught a glimpse of him in the rear-view-mirror. He pulled a face. "Yeah, but not that kind. I'm really getting used to sleeping in cars."

"No worse than sleeping on horseback," Altaïr said.

"You can't sleep on horseback," Lucy declared. "You'd fall off."

"Not if you are good," he countered. He looked over his shoulder at Desmond, "There is a private airfield not far from here, Lucy thinks that's where we should be going."

"Didn't you have a route planned out?" Desmond asked. "Swiped clean of Templars, which sounded really good."

"That will have changed. Since we crossed the border the way we did, the Templars can surmise our destination."

"They probably also know about the airfield," Lucy added.

Desmond frowned, looked unhappy and tired. "We'll fight? Is that what you are saying?" he asked.

"There are always more than one way to do things," Altaïr said. "The airfield is merely convenient."

Desmond made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "But it sounds like it makes sense," he said. "So, let's go there."

"You don't understand," Altaïr said, lifting his voice just slightly. "We will be outnumbered and if you think you can't hold your own, then we need to find a different path to our goal."

It was difficult for Lucy to keep her attention on the road. She wanted to see Desmond's face so she didn't have to blindly trust Altaïr's assessment of the situation.

To her, killing had never roused any greater emotion, good or bad. It was a necessity, not to be used lightly, but when you did, there was no reason to hesitate or dwell on it. But she had grown into this in ways completely differently than Desmond. It was almost comforting to see Desmond's own moral get in the way of it despite the memories to two trained killers they had shoved into his mind.

Desmond snorted. "You can judge better than I if I can fight or not."

"That's not what I mean," Altaïr said, patient running thin.

"If I can kill?" Desmond growled. "I'm guessing it gets easier with time and it's not like I've got much of a choice. As I see it, it makes no damned difference where we go or what we do. Sooner or later, Vidic or Abstergo or whatever is going to find us."

There was silence after he stopped speaking. Lucy cast another glance into the rear-view-mirror. Desmond had pulled one leg up on the seat beside him and was looking at the window.

"The airfield it is," Lucy said.

* * *

The Templars did not believe in many things apart from power. The centuries had taught them bitter lessens about the world they all lived in and of the horrors the future would hold. They knew what price would have to be paid if the world was ever to have peace. And, grimly, long ago they had set out on the path, despite the terrible awareness that even as they tried to save them, all the people would forever fight them in the ignorance of little children.

The Templars understood that knowing the world meant suffering this very knowledge, the very plight they meant to protect humanity from. And still, despite knowing so much and having seen every conceivable horror in all the long years of their struggle, a handful of legends had prevailed through the changing times to set every knight's teeth on edge, a prickling at the back of the neck despite all the power of their order.

One such legend speaks of a man in white.

The dead guard only had a small puncture on his chest, far too small to be from an ordinary knife. By the expression on the dead man's face, he had never seen it coming, had never known he was dying before it was open him. The woman straightened and caught the eyes of the man standing behind her. "They are here," she said.

The man nodded gravely.

No one else wielded a weapon that left this kind of wound. She was a Knight Templar, holding the rank of field operative. She had been sent here in the unlikely chance that Lucy and her charge would happen this way, but she had been given only a handful of men. She had had them set to patrol around the airfield's main building, only to find one of them murdered in the fast descending twilight.

The dead was still warm, it couldn't have been long.

"Get ready," she ordered. "We are under attack."

She looked at the thick bushes along the side of the wide concrete field. It wasn't particularly thick, but it left an impression of desolation. It was a two-hour drive to the next town from here, but they might as well have dropped off the edge of the world.

She pulled out her cellphone and began dialling.

With the empty bleeping in her ear, she startled and squinted into the distance, but nothing moved again.

"They are here," she said again, into her phone. "We could use some reinforcements. - Of course. - We'll at least stall them, but none of them have the skill to stop a fully trained Assassin."

The legend of a man in white, who had torn into their ranks with utter devastation. Who had never been caught, who had - they said - never been grazed by their swords, whose face only his victims had ever truly seen.

She wondered if there really had ever been an Assassin like that. She had fought and killed their ilk before, after all, and they fell like any other human, even if they had never been easy prey.

She felt watched, suddenly, and it seemed to penetrate the armour of her professionalism with unsettling ease.

Hanging up, she walked back to the building, with some effort keeping her steps unhurried in a confidence she no longer felt.

* * *

_"For rarely are sons similar to their fathers: most are worse, and a few are better than their fathers." from The Odyssey by Homer_

* * *

**Author's Note:** The implication is that Desmond is the better of the two, since he is not a natural killer. Also, the shift in perspective to the Templar was a first for this story, but I'll need some of it later on.


	7. Facilis Descensus Averni

_Many, many thanks to Crazy Penguin Lord for beta-reading! _

* * *

**Chapter 7: Facilis Descensus Averni**

It had started with a joke. At the time, Ezio had been so blissfully unaware of how sour it would turn with time. It had started with a joke. A casual remark made one morning by Rosa about a grey hair she had found while combing. It could not possibly be the first of them, but she played the role of mistress Auditore only reluctantly and rarely. She had married him because she had wanted to, everything else that came with it- the name, the publicity, the semi-loss of her independence - that had been only secondary in her mind. It had never meant either of them changed their ways, not truly. What would have been the point? But sometimes she came to Firenze with him, sometimes she stood in front of the huge, adorned mirror in his room and combed her hair. And one day, she had found the grey glittering silvery in the comb.

She was younger than, only by a year, but still. She had joked about how well-preserved he was, giving him a wide, mischievous grin across the room. She had wondered aloud about what deals with what horned and hooved creature he might have struck and whether he ever intended to take pity on womanhood in general.

It had been funny at the time, cradled in the security of their life and their world, before Ezio had learned how little he should have relied on its continued existence. And he should have known. Life had taught him that bitter lesson before, after all, how all his happiness could be - and had been - taken away in the blink of an eye, and left him standing on the sidelines, a spectator to his own fate, helpless do anything but watch and suffer.

"This is amazing!" Rebecca suddenly announced, dragging him out of his reverie with all the freshness of a cold shower. Considering the direction his thoughts had taken, he was not particularly annoyed by it.

They had originally sat separately on the plane, but some reshuffling had had to take place due to overbooking and it had flooded Rebecca right back to his side. Shaun was still two rows in front of them, buried in his own work.

Ezio turned his head to watch Rebecca's bright face as she stared on her screen. "What is?" he asked, although he doubted she needed the prompt.

"I've traced the white eagle in Desmond's dream," she said and than pulled a face. "Well, sort of. I'm not sure what to make of it, but I don't think I've made a mistake."

The flight attendant pushed past her tray, giving them all a beaming, fake smile. Ezio smiled back brightly, just because none of the other passengers had bothered to. For a moment a spark crossed her eyes like a shooting star before she turned her attention back to her work.

"See this?" Rebecca turned the laptop to give Ezio a better angle to view the screen.

"Let us pretend this is gibberish to me," Ezio said carefully.

"It would be to most people," Rebecca assured him, still grinning. "It's the original source code of the Animus programme. I'm sure you know Abstergo didn't exactly invent the thing, right?"

"I think I've heard of it," Ezio said dryly. It was Altaïr's interest, not his, but five centuries was a long time, sooner or later you ended up paying attention to things.

"Well, the eagle is part of the original programme. It's like a... a copyright stamp. Or a trademark thing. It's also only half of the code. It's meant to connect with a second part."

"What will happen if you find that second part?"

Rebecca's grin widened even further. "We can read what it says!" She turned the laptop back. "I gotta tell Lucy about this!"

Without waiting, Ezio slipped his cellphone from his pocket and handed it to her. Rebecca's fascination was contagious even if, personally, he didn't believe a small bit of programme code would give the answer to everything.

* * *

Desmond had scrambled back into the doubtful cover of the bushes and now crouched low beside a dead tree. They had been scouting the airfield all afternoon after both Desmond and Altaïr had taken one look at the place and declared it full of Templars. That was before they had actually seen the patrols or the woman with her aura of leadership. Desmond recalled giving Altaïr a quick glance, as if looking for reassurance of his assessment, but Altaïr had taken it in stride. And Desmond, with too much on his mind already, had no leisure how he could sense the danger this clearly.

They had split up, circling the perimeters of the field and getting to know the patrols. They were subtle enough, the men carried no apparent weapons and might, for a casual onlooker who didn't know the whole picture, be taken for inconspicuous enough.

Half a dozen or so, which was the conclusion they all shared, with perhaps a few more inside the administrative building.

There was a small hangar building, too, but it was carelessly unlocked, Altaïr quickly gave it a one over and declared it clean. Two small aeroplanes were parked there, belonging most likely to some local businessmen or other. Lucy had pulled a face at the sight, remarking about preferring helicopters because they were more flexible.

"But you can fly those, can't you?" Altaïr had asked in a voice that suggested he knew the answer.

"Of course I can," she said back, keeping her eye on the airfield. "Can't you?"

"Since you are still uncomfortable with me driving..."

"You drive like a madman," Lucy had interrupted. "You'd probably fly loop-de-loops."

"Just so," Altaïr had said and smiled a little.

Desmond didn't know why the short conversation came back to him now. It made little sense, really, apart from making him feel even more inept than before. He recalled wanting to be a pilot, once, when he was very small. It hadn't come to much, though, as with most people.

The guard had swerved from his usual path for reasons Desmond could not discern and stumbled right into him. The Templar had been surprised to find himself face to face with Desmond, it lasted for no more than a second, but by that time, he was already dead. By the way he had fallen, Desmond guessed he had hit true with the hidden blade, putting it right into the man's heart with so much accuracy the man was dead before he even hit the ground.

Now he sat here and watched the Templar woman make her call and scan the shrubbery with so much suspicion, Desmond was convinced she had spotted him. The sense of _enemy _she conveyed through whatever additional senses had been woken in him was quite overpowering. Different to Vidic, somehow, less personal in its way, but just as threatening for it.

The hidden blade hissed from its sheath again and Desmond realised he had pulled its trigger in agitation while he watched.

He had botched the plan, but with no real fault of his own. Perhaps he should have hidden the body somewhere, but he wasn't sure what use that would have been. The guard would be missed one way or another and he doubted the Templars wouldn't make the obvious connection.

Night was creeping up on them slowly. The weather was better than it had been, with the sunlight in golden hues over the sparse vegetation and the cracked concrete of the airfield. As Desmond continued waiting, he noticed that the roster in patrols changed and that they stayed within sight of each other, covering less space as they did.

He slithered back carefully, further than he supposed was strictly necessary before he stood up and turned around to go back to meet up with Lucy and Altaïr.

He'd dropped into a defensive crouch before he even realised that someone was standing there, the hidden blade shot out in front of his face and his other hand moved to the gun at his hip. He was suddenly grateful he had taken that weapon, too, for all the little training he'd had in it. Then his senses caught up with him and Desmond relaxed.

"Jesus, Altaïr," he huffed. "Was that necessary?"

"You still owe me," Altaïr remarked dryly and Desmond winced a little.

Altaïr leaned casually against a tree with his hands tucked away in the pockets of his jeans.

He said, "You are late. What happened?"

Desmond hesitated. He thought of his father, for some reason, who had not once scolded him and of his mother who had. "One of the guards happened," Desmond said honestly. "He saw me."

"You killed him?"

The tone in Altaïr's voice puzzled him, until the memory of his father - his own memory for once - told him it was actual concern, somewhere underneath the ever-present deadly calm.

"What else should I've done?" Desmond asked back.

"These are well-trained men," Altaïr said. "No story you could have told them would have been convincing. There was nothing else you could have done."

Somehow, being told that didn't make him feel as good as he thought it should. Watching Altaïr disconnect himself from the tree and stride slowly towards the airfield, Desmond found the answer. It was the disparity with the image of his father, so suddenly roused from so deep within him. Take away a few generations and that was the best relationship he could have with Altaïr, but it didn't fit. His father had always been a leisurely man, unassuming and, as Desmond recalled, always a little overweight and starting to go bald even before Desmond had left.

"Where are you going?" Desmond asked, belatedly realising what Altaïr was doing.

"Stealing a plane?" Altaïr offered with a slight shrug and kept walking.

Desmond wavered back and forth a little. His mind had been certain he would go back to the car, meet up with Lucy and talk the plan through before they moved. But Altaïr was obviously not doing that and likewise he did expect Desmond to follow his lead.

Not knowing what else to do, Desmond followed Altaïr. They circled the airfield and the building until they reached the parking lot at its back. It was nearly empty, except for two cars and a van.

"It's even got the Abstergo logo on it," Desmond remarked.

"It's a legal company," Altaïr replied.

"Still..." Desmond muttered but Altaïr was barely paying attention to him.

There was only one narrow door and a row of tiny windows set in the building on this side. A man stood by the door. He, like the one Desmond had killed, wore no obvious weapons. Closer inspection of his clothes revealed that, while casual enough, were also just that slightest bit too suitable for combat.

Desmond glanced at Altaïr and found the man's disconcerting gaze fixed on him. "Can you get over there?" Altaïr asked and pointed at a trash container, a few steps away from the guard along the wall.

Desmond looked at the thin pattern of cars in the space in front of him, at the even thinner shrubbery at that side. A series of movements mapped themselves out in his mind subconsciously. "I think so," he than said.

Altaïr nodded and scooted the other way. Desmond watched his progress for a moment, the way he walked like a shadow. There was no more cover for Altaïr than there was for Desmond, but somehow Altaïr's movements flowed with his surrounding, making it rather difficult to focus on him.

Eying the container, Desmond pushed himself forward. No use standing there and gaping, after all.

It took an amazing amount of courage to actually leave the faint cover of the bushes and get out in the open behind a car, edging forward carefully. He kept his attention on the guard by the door and bounced across the narrow alley between two cars once he had looked somewhere else.

The container felt out of reach, halfway across the world and it was getting dark. The instant they switched the lights on, he would cast a long shadow out here.

Crouching beside the wheel of the Abstergo van, Desmond leaned forward and saw the guard looking almost directly at him. His heart skipping a beat, Desmond drew back, pressing his back tightly against the van. His unarmed hand had gone for the gun, fingers wrapping around the grip and trigger of their own accord.

Nothing happened.

After another moment, his breathing calmed down a little. The guard had not seen him, however much it had appeared to so.

Forcing his hand away from the gun, he leaned forward again. The guard had started pacing in front of the door. Must be quite the boring duty, Desmond thought dimly, then jumped forward and behind the container.

He had barely set himself up when he saw Altaïr appear suddenly at the edge of the parking lot, walking rather openly towards the guard.

"The hell...?"

The guard noticed Altaïr. He put his hand on the back of his pants, where his gun resided, but then seemed to remember he was supposed to be a civilian.

"Hey you! We are closed!" he said loud enough for his voice to carry. The parking lot wasn't large - not really, Desmond thought, now that he had crossed its expanse. Space for maybe a dozen cars or so. It meant Altaïr was already close to the guard, who appeared more annoyed than suspicious.

"What do you want anyway?" the guard demanded.

Altaïr shook his head and kept walking forward until he stopped in front of the guard.

"Inside," Altaïr said with a slight tilt of his head, indicating the building.

"Yeah right," the guard sneered. "Who do you think you are?"

One corner of Altaïr's mouth twitched a little. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

The guard snorted. "Are you trying to piss me off? Go away or there will be trouble."

Something clicked by his ear. Battle-trained after all, realisation hit the guard like a hammer. He shifted his weight, but the gun pressed against his temple didn't invite resistance.

Desmond pushed a little for good measure and saw the metal leave a small white circle on the man's skin.

The guard recovered from the initial surprise. "You Assassins, then?" he asked. "Didn't think you'd have the guts."

"Insulting the man with a gun to your head," Desmond said with a hiss in his voice he had not known he possessed. "Not a smart move."

But Desmond still didn't know what Altaïr was playing at and looked at him for cues.

"Now, turn and knock," Altaïr told the guard. "Move slowly, though."

Desmond drew the gun away a little, but not far enough to lessen its threat value.

The guard's gaze shifted between Altaïr, Desmond and the gun, visibly trying to work out his chances. He settled on temporary compliance, however, and turned slowly around and lifting his hand to knock. His hand never touched the door. Altaïr reached forward, gripped the guard by the shoulder and plunged one hidden blade upward into the man's head through the neck.

Desmond, instead of jumping backward - the way he inwardly did - just stiffened. The first thought that entered his mind, strangely enough, was that he wouldn't be needing the gun. Altaïr lowered the guard to the ground at the side of the door.

"Was there a point to this?" Desmond asked.

Altaïr gave him a predatory little smile. "Well, yes. An Assassin adapts, even if the situation seems to make no sense. So, do you know what the layout looks like?"

Desmond chewed on his lips, then noticed what he was doing and stopped abruptly. Slowly, he recounted what he remembered from the plan Lucy had shown him earlier. The blinds were drawn on all the windows, making it impossible to see inside.

"A small hallway opposite the door, probably used as a wardrobe, three doors leading out. On the left to the toilets, offices on the right, costumer reception area straight through." He paused, looked at Altaïr. "Right?"

Altaïr only nodded. "Good. The Templars will be most likely spread out between the offices and reception, but never leave the toilets out of the equation. Nothing is more embarrassing than being taken by surprise by someone with their breeches around their knees. Now..."

"You talking from experience?" Desmond asked before he could stop himself and received another quick smile. "Some secrets I will keep," Altaïr said softly. "_Now_, which direction do you want?"

Desmond scrutinised Altaïr's face, but the smile had faded as quickly as it had come, leaving nothing but cool calculation in its wake. Even if Desmond was still inclined, at this point, to question what they were about to do - and it looked like simple, frontal assault at the moment - he held his tongue.

"Offices," he said, rather randomly.

Altaïr scooped down and picked up the keys from the dead guard. He took some care to prevent the keys from rattling. He opened the fire exit door; it opened outward and it was dark beyond.

The lights picked that moment to come on with sudden ferocity, flooding the parking lot and the airfield beyond. Desmond squinted in the sudden brightness. "Great timing," he remarked. He was given no time to dwell on it. Altaïr slipped inside, making no sound and the door creaked only when Desmond tried to imitate him.

The hallway was shorter and narrower than the plan had made it appear. A few jackets were hung up on a rack on one wall beside a faded sign.

Distant voices drifted through the room, strange and indistinct with their origin difficult to judge. Desmond tried not to concern himself with Altaïr, but instead focused on the door towards the offices. It was slightly ajar and he edged forward carefully and gave the door a shove.

It drifted open slowly, exposing another length of dusty PVC corridor. He saw someone move at the other end of the corridor, just coming from one of the offices. Desmond pushed himself against the wall, waiting. Altaïr had gone, as soundlessly as ever, creating whatever carnage he deemed necessary.

Standing there, with the greasy solidity of the wall against his back calm suddenly washed over him. No whispering voices, this time, and he was grateful for that, just the quiet, reassuring feeling that this - all of this - was nothing out of the ordinary. He felt like he had done this countless times before - and he had, in a way - it was the trade he had been born for and all the generations preceding him were lending him all their knowledge.

From the steps, Desmond could tell someone was going through the separate offices. He heard the quiet snap of a door. Desmond snook around the doorframe, saw the open door at the end of the hallway and crossed the space with long, silent strides.

Desmond moved himself into the doorway. The guard had moved to a window, checking its lock.

Desmond could tell by his stance he was a well-versed fighter, certainly with more experience than Desmond himself, at least of the practical variety. Confidence flooded him, though, cool like an ocean's tide and he stepped forward, out of the restriction the doorway set.

Satisfied with the window, the guard turned around, only to abruptly stop, seeing Desmond standing there. Desmond moved forward again, felt his hips shift into a swagger that carried him right in front of the other man. Desmond was taller and at this distance the difference showed. Desmond saw the recognition flare up and now the guard's reflexes kicked in. The guard threw himself forward with a yell, drawing a jagged hunting knife from his belt.

Desmond sidestepped too easily, leaving him almost as surprised as the guard was, but Desmond paid it no heed. He kicked forward with one leg, easily balanced and felt the tip of his boot connect with the guard's wrist. The guard grunted at the pain, the knife flew in a high arch through the room, but the guard probably knew he couldn't catch it. He threw himself at Desmond instead with his full weight. Desmond jumped back on instinct, hoping there was nothing in the way and felt his footing suddenly give way on a sheet of paper. It was only a moment, but enough for the guard to give an angry yell and tackled Desmond to the ground.

Desmond snarled again. The sound was becoming familiar on his throat, like cigarette smoke, only rough in the beginning.

He pounded the edge of his elbow into the guard's face and barely flinched when the man's fist slammed his side. The guard closed his hand around Desmond's hand, keeping his armed hand out of reach, but he had to sacrifice freedom of movement for it. Desmond simply twisted himself to the side. His instinct told him to headbutt the man, but he didn't quite dare the move. Instead he snapped his knee up to hoist the guard aside and snap his fist into his face twice. The moment the grip on his wrist slackened, Desmond snatched it free and let the blade shoot from its sheath. And then Desmond saw the fear ignited like dry leaves in autumn by the sharp quiet sound the blade made. Wide-eyed, the guard made one crucial mistake. Reacting to the sudden threat of that most cruel of weapons he drew back, just enough to give Desmond the room he needed to sweep the blade around and across his throat.

The guard sagged against Desmond, bleeding out in a fountain of red over his chest.

Suddenly breathing hard, Desmond's nerves gave way and he scrambled to his feet hastily. He tried not to dwell on his ruined appearance or the way it made him suddenly feel sick all over again.

He made sure to check the other rooms and found them empty before he returned to the hallway. Hesitating for a moment, his gaze fell on the restroom door.

With the hunting knife he had taken from the guard, Desmond slipped over and then pranced inside, thinking it would be less suspicious this way. But there was no one inside to appreciate his cleverness.

Calm again, despite the blood drying the shirt to his chest, he made his way to the reception room.

Predictably, Altaïr had clearly taken less effort to dispose of two men and another woman. Two were slumped in their chairs and the third lay on the floor by the door.

As Desmond entered, Altaïr had just picked up the Templar woman by the collar and unceremoniously pushed her against the wall. She was limp in his hand, her arms only twitching in a meagre attempt to protect her from the impact.

Altaïr swivelled his head to look at Desmond.

Desmond gave a grim nod and walked forward to where an old counter dominated the room. He leaned against it, knowing he looked casual, but needing the support.

"Again," Altaïr said, turning the woman around and pushing her down in a chair. "Call off the reinforcements."

She bared her teeth at him. One side of her face was swollen and bloody from other encounters with the wall.

"No," she spat, blood dribbling from the corners of her mouth. "Never."

Altaïr tilted his head to the side. The gesture was playful and Desmond almost winced at it. This was what he didn't want to learn and what bothered him so. Altaïr was not a cold-blooded killer, or, at least, not _only_. There were other sides to him - caring, loving, capable of surprising warmth and humour. And there was this. That secret sense of power of another's life, the thrill of his own excellence which gave him, inevitably, the freedom to do whatever the hell he pleased.

Altaïr let go of the woman's collar, but only so he could put both hands on the armrest on either side of her, leaning forward and bringing their faces close. It gave her no choice but to endure the cold liquid of his eyes. "You think defiance makes a difference," Altaïr observed, voice deceptively soft. "But you are wrong. It only makes everything harder."

"You'll kill me anyway," she coughed out.

One eyebrow shifted upward fractionally. "Yes, but there is dying and dying. It will be at least an hour until your help reaches us. What do you think I can do with a full hour? Use your imagination."

Desmond cleared his throat, wanted to speak, wanted to end this. He caught Altaïr's shoulder tensing at the sound and wondered what the Assassin would do if Desmond interrupted him now, undermined the web of threat he had built around the woman.

"I will not!" the woman stated. "Do what you want, filthy Assassin."

She pushed her jaw forward stubbornly and clenched her teeth in an obvious resolution to hold her silence from now on.

Without taking his gaze away from her, Altaïr lifted one hand, reached past her and lifted her cellphone up, let it slide open. "

Desmond didn't know what happened then, but suddenly the woman broke. It made no sense at all to him, until he remembered what he sometimes saw reflected in Altaïr's eyes. The age of them, all the things he had seen as the centuries turned. No normal person, no matter how trained or experienced, Desmond supposed, could withstand the full force of that, the sheer weight of it. In their world of small minds and little idols, it must be like looking into the eyes of a god.

Shivering, she turned her head away. "They won't buy it," she said. Her voice was cracked now, and not because of her battered state.

"As long as you sound convincing, the blame won't be yours," Altaïr assured her. He turned the cellphone to quickly push a few buttons, than handed it to her and let the hand drop back to the chair, keeping her captured.

"Yeah," she said, swallowing blood with some difficulty. "I know, but the situation has changed. - I don't think the Assassins are here after all. - Absolutely. - I take full responsibility. - I'll file a full report, it'll make everything clear. - I apologise, truly." She glanced at Altaïr and then forced a smile onto her bleeding lips. "Still, better safe than sorry, right? - I understand. - Yes. - Bye."

Altaïr, possibly close enough to have heard the other half of the conversation, pulled the phone from her unresisting hand and closed it, tossed it away into the next chair.

"Thank you, Galina," Altaïr said and slipped his hand along the side of her face. It looked almost like a caress until he stopped at the temple. His grip tightened against the backlash and the Hidden Blade cut cleanly through her head.

* * *

_Facilis descensus Averni:_

_noctes atque dies patet atri ianua Ditis;_

_sed revocare gradium superasque evadere ad auras._

_hoc opus, hic labor est._

_(It is easy to go down into Hell;_

_Night and day, the gates of dark Death stand wide;_

_But to climb back again, to retrace one's steps to the upper air -_

_There's the rub, the task.) _

_from the Aeneid by Virgil_


	8. But Never Thought That Fire Would Burn

_Thanks to Crazy Penguin Lord for beta-reading and coming up with the chapter title!_

* * *

**Chapter 8: But Never Thought That Fire Would Burn**

In the bustle of passengers getting ready to leave the plane, Ezio suddenly leaned towards Rebecca and whispered, "Take my bag, I won't risk losing the blades."

Rebecca turned her head to him, taken aback for no more than a split second at how close he was. "Do you think something's wrong?"

He only shook his head, settled back from her again, and didn't meet her gaze. Nothing but two strangers, their behaviour conveyed, who had accidentally come too close in the narrow aisle. Rebecca turned away, left her own bag, slung his over her shoulder and filed out with the other passengers. She didn't see Ezio hang back until he was far enough from both her and Shaun so no obvious connection could be made.

Constable Esperanza Aracon Ortega crunched her face into a frown as she looked across the swirling mass of people waiting at the carousel for their luggage or skittering away like birds.

"Could be," she said slowly.

"Shall we bring him in?" a colleague asked.

Ortega didn't take her gaze off the man. He had no suitcase and was making a beeline for the exit now. "Yes, do so, but be discreet about it."

Ortega hung back to watch. The man was making her feel seriously anxious and not only because that was the kind of reaction you should have when confronting suspected terrorists. They stalled him at the heat monitors, set up against the recent Jungle Flu outbreak. He had not resisted at all, though clearly he had made some brief effort to smile and charm himself past the officers snatching him away before he could walk out. A search for hidden weapons revealed nothing, but the contents of his bag were somewhat suspicious.

Picking up the file, Ortega made her way to the interrogation room.

He had settled himself comfortably on one side of the table, one leg crossed at the ankle, knee pressed against the edge of the table. One hand rested limp beside it, the other hung casually down by his side. He tilted his head towards her when she entered.

"Finally," he said with impatient friendliness. "I'm on a business trip, you know. I have other places to be."

He had spoken in Spanish. If he had an accent, it was difficult to detect or place, even if he did sound slightly off. His passport had given his name as Miguel Jesus Randez, a native of Spain, which might account for the difference. He said he was a clockmaker from Spain and the paper trail was completely clean.

Ignoring him for the moment, Ortega sat down opposite him, put the file on the table and shuffled through it briefly. She pulled out the printout they had received a day earlier. She pushed it toward him. "This looks a lot like you," she said.

He glanced down and she thought he held his composure perhaps a little too well. "Don't they say everyone has a twin in this world?"

"Right down to the scar?" she asked.

She had watched him through the one-way mirror before coming in. It was easy to see why he had set off alarms; the resemblance to the terrorist was striking. But watching him, it seemed to peel away under close scrutiny, like thin paint in the sun.

"Who is this?" the man asked.

"A man called Desmond Miles, American Homeland Security would like to talk to him," Ortega replied. "Something else, then. You don't strike me as the type of man who would be using lipstick excessively."

A small smile curled his mouth, drew attention to the scar on his lip. "If it's bothering you so much, it belongs to a friend. I was planning to meet her here."

"I thought you were on a business trip?"

"Don't you ever mix business with pleasure, señora?" he asked back.

She tried to let the slight suggestions brush past her without paying it too much attention. Her professional mind, however, stubbed her on it now. How he didn't match up with what she knew of him. A _clockmaker_ with the body of an athlete and a face that wouldn't have been out of place on a magazine cover? Stranger things had happened, of course, but the discord reverberated anyway. He seemed to recognise his mistake and dulled the charm in his smile as he sat up a little straighter to fix her with his dark gaze. "Look, I understand you are just doing your duty, but I really am not the man you are looking for."

Ortega shrugged. "Unfortunately, I can't well take your word for it, now can I? The computer you've had with you, we are a little puzzled."

"It's a special manufacture. I need it for work."

"Give us the password," she said.

He gave an indignant snort, crossed his arms over his chest. "I can't do that," he said. "It contains confidential information about my customers."

"Seeing as you should be just as eager to prove your innocence..." she began, but didn't get to finish because the door was suddenly thrust open.

Anger flared up in her. "I'm not done!" she snapped without looking, because something interesting happened with the suspected terrorist. He had tensed at the sudden intrusion, dropped his leg to the ground and brought both arms up in the beginning of a defensive or even offensive stance. Whatever he was, a simple clockmaker wouldn't have reflexes like that, Ortega was certain of it.

"On the contrary," said a sneering voice in English. "You are no longer needed."

She tore her head away and stared at the door. A tall, wiry man walked in, middle aged with greying beard and hair. Small nasty eyes glittered at her as if he expected her to cower under them.

"Who the hell are you?" Ortega asked and got up, but quickly checked herself when she saw her lieutenant behind the intruder.

"Let it be, Esperanza," he advised. "It's too much trouble. Señor Vidic will handle this."

She was about to say something, severely disliking the direction this was going, but she knew a losing battle when she saw one. "All right," she said grumpily and followed the lieutenant outside. Only when the door had fallen closed she hissed, "What is going on here?"

"You know how it is these days," he said.

"I'm fairly sure that's not the man they are looking for," she pointed out.

"Leave it, Esperanza, no good can come of it. We'll do this by the book."

In the interrogation room, Vidic circled the table twice before he stopped opposite Ezio to stare down on him.

"I do believe you," Vidic said mockingly. "You are certainly not Desmond Miles."

"Since that's out of the way, can I go?" Ezio asked. He had relaxed again, but kept his gaze quite firmly fixed on Vidic.

"Hardly," Vidic said. "Hardly. Who are you?"

Ezio pulled a teeth-baring smile. "My name is Miguel Randez, as if you didn't know that. I'm not a terrorist."

"I believe that, too," Vidic nodded. "But I'm afraid it doesn't help you."

Ezio sighed almost dramatically. "Can we cut to the chase? This is getting tiresome."

"Whatever you say," Vidic sneered. "Although terrorist you are not, Assassin you most decidedly are. I can tell by just looking. Perhaps Mr. Miles had siblings of which we were unaware, in which case you might prove useful to us. Either way, I'm afraid, I can tell you aren't going to like it."

While the last words were still hanging between them, their threat tangible in the air and Vidic's aggravating superiority plastered across his face, Ezio suddenly exploded from his seat. He jumped the table with all the grace of a hunting cat, gripped Vidic by the collar and twisted them around so he could push him down against the table.

"Not much incentive for me to play along, then," Ezio said, sounding as calm as if he was sitting in someone's parlour. "Do you want to know who I am?"

Flustered, Vidic struggled only halfheartedly. He coughed against the pressure on his throat and gaped silently upward.

"I am your death, Templar," Ezio said.

Sudden shock wiped away the smugness from Vidic's face and he went pale, whatever his conscious mind thought, his gut instinct completely and utterly believed Ezio's words just then. You didn't look into that gaze and disbelieve the claim.

The door opened and men piled in hastily to help Vidic. Some in police uniform, others in Templar combat gear. Ezio pushed himself away from Vidic and to the side.

Ezio collided with a policeman, tore him down and bounced right back to his feet. They were armed with tasers and Ezio's lip curled briefly in distaste. Children's toys turned torture tools, for all he cared; slow, clumsy and inflexible. The flat of his hand hit someone's nose, sending him reeling backward, clutching at his face and the way was free. Ezio darted down the corridor. Behind him Vidic's voice rose up, bellowing at the top of his lungs to catch him.

Ahead of Ezio, the female officer just walked out of a door. Seeing him, she widened her stance and had the presence of mind to ditch the coffee from her hand right at his face. Ezio ducked away under the steaming spray, got hold of her arm and held hard. She hissed a string of curses and jerked her arms and legs in a succession of movements that should have broken his hold on her, but failed because no matter what she did he adjusted too fast.

"Where is the laptop?" Ezio demanded. Her hand lashed past his face and did no damage.

"Tell me now, "Ezio said urgently. "I have no time and I'll hurt you."

She wasn't going to comply, he could tell, but the involuntary movement of her eyes had given her away. The next room, then.

"I'm sorry," Ezio's whispered hastily. Sensing what was coming, she renewed her struggles, but again, Ezio barely took note of them. His grip still tight, he swung her around and tossed her down the corridor. She fell hard, curled and her head bounced of the wall, leaving her momentarily dazed.

The corridor was filling with more police on both ends now. He kicked the - rather feeble, as it were - door in and saw the computer sit on a table across the room, two young men in front. They yelped and offered no resistance as he snapped the machine shut. and hastened out.

Taser projectiles hit the wall beside his head twice before he reached the end of the corridor. Wrangling a keycard from one of his prospective captors, he let himself out. The door closed behind him, but he could already hear it unlocking again.

After the restricting feel of the corridors within the police station, he suddenly felt free under the high ceiling, able to breath in the huge, open space of the airport. He took off fast, getting as much distance between himself and the police massing at his back. He would have liked to make a beeline for the exit, but suspected he couldn't beat security there; besides he didn't know the layout of the airport well enough for it.

A running man in an airport caused hardly a commotion, but no doubt security cameras were everywhere, tracking his movements even as he ran up moving stairs and dipped into the different sort of commotion of the mall.

In the security room, Warren Vidic paced in front of the video wall. Some of his own people had taken over part of the duty, but the policewoman and her boss still lurked around.

"Find him!" Vidic barked, turned on his heel and stared at the screens as if somehow he could see more in them. He turned his head over his shoulder. "Close the airport!" he ordered. "Lock it down! I want that man caught!"

He neither waited for his orders to be followed, nor did he repeat them. After a moment's hesitation, he heard the call being made. Apparent misgivings notwithstanding, they wouldn't have dared disregard his orders, after all.

"There!" the security man said. "He's just entered the mall."

"Keep him in sight!" Vidic growled.

In truth, he could barely contain himself. They had only patchy files on Miles' ancestors, but the family resemblance had been strong with most of them. How likely was it that Miles had a brother they didn't know of? Modern information technology had made everything so much easier. If Miles _did _have a brother, they should have known about him. If Miles had a brother who was an Assassin of this apparent skill... It didn't seem to make all that much sense. So who was that man?

They had lost Miles' trail on a private airfield in Mexico. The carnage there suggested Stillman and Miles had found some kind of help. They also had the footage from New York of Stillman and Miles with another man. Probably this one, then, suggesting the others were here, too.

On the screens, the Assassin proved surprisingly good at evading the cameras. At some point he had shed his pale shirt and exchanged it for a simple black one. He lurked in a quieter corridor now, relaxed enough, waiting for two policemen to make their way towards his position.

"He is right around the corner," the security woman said into her speaker. "Careful. Looks like he knows you are coming."

Vidic halted his thoughts in mid-process. He had seen the Assassin move, but he had not had much time to assess his skill and thus the truth of his claim.

Ezio sauntered forward and intercepted the two policemen, as if it wasn't he who was being chased. The fight that followed was short, shockingly so and gained a surreal quality on the slightly blurred and utterly silent surveillance footage.

Without breathing, Vidic saw the Assassin take down the two policemen and they might as well not be fighting back at all. The Assassin turned around, taking in his surrounding. His attention lingered on the camera for a moment longer and a small smile slipped across his face. The resemblance to Miles slipped away, replaced by the footage they had of Altaïr and the ancient Assassin's arrogance. The Assassin bent down and picked up one of the policemen, dragging him away somewhere. The operator in front of the screen hastily jerked her controls, made the camera follow the move, but the Assassin persisted until he was gone.

"He is disguised," Vidic noted. "Tell your men to stick in pairs, at least. Everyone else, arrest."

The lieutenant nodded grimly. He had gone pale at the display of fighting skill they had just witnessed and whatever objection he might have had about Vidic taking his authority had faded.

Clearing the airport took time, took seemingly forever and the sudden change of flow in people's movements made it even more difficult to find the Assassin. They spotted him sometimes, one screen or another, but he seemed to have a sixth sense for finding the system's blind spots.

"He is working for the service exits," Esperanza Ortega observed from where she stood at the wall. "Not a bad move. No camera surveillance."

"And fewer civilians," Vidic observed. Casualties made no difference, but it tended to stir up dust and right now, they needed their resources elsewhere.

"Here are your orders," Vidic said, talking slowly so there was no room for misunderstanding. "That man, Randez, must be secured _alive _under any circumstances. I don't care what it takes, just bring him back."

* * *

Ezio stood in the shadow of a concrete pillar, stolen uniform jacket and cap tucked under his arm alongside Rebecca's laptop. He knew he was nearly invisible to the people filing past him towards the exits. He had considered joining them, but even though the crowd would cover him, he disliked the thought of getting caught in a fight with so many innocents around. He disliked the fact that he had no weapon even more. A group of gaggling tourists moved past, colourful clothing and luggage of all shapes and sizes shared between them. Ezio left the pillar and sidled into their group, apologising with his most charming smile when he - intentionally - bumped into a young woman. He fell into step beside her, inside her personal space and mindful of the camera at his back. Before the woman could make up her mind whether she wanted him there or not, he gave a nod and smile, slipped away from the group and around another pillar.

Along the wall opposite the pillar, discreet doors offered access to the service installations of the airport. The great, open space of the airport had seemed inviting before, but now he itched to get out of the spotlight, something narrower and quieter, where it was easier for him to face down a larger number of enemies, if it really came down to it.

An elderly man shuffled towards one of the doors and Ezio saw his chance. He edged forward on the pillar, as far as he dared. Three police officers were within striking distance of the door the man was aiming for. Pacing himself, Ezio waited until the man had pulled out his keycard and opened the door. He heaved the metal open, then turned to pull his trolley along.

Ezio left his shadow and, affecting a slow saunter, he made his way towards the far wall. The policemen's attention passed over him, but the one Templar weren't fooled as easily. His eyes narrowed suspiciously and his stance shifted to one of readiness. Ezio broke his casual poise and jump-started forward, drawing attention from the others then. In movement, he let go of the jacket and cap, holding securely on to the laptop. Handicapped, he pummeled with his shoulder into the nearest man and tore him down, letting himself fall with him. Taser projectiles passed harmlessly over his head and Ezio lunged for the shooter, snapping the man's legs away from under him and gripping hold of his head as he went down. Ezio pounded his head on the floor twice and then left him there.

The Templar gave a yell - stupidly drawing attention and giving Ezio the time to turn on his heels. Ezio extended one leg back for balance and waited until the Templar came close, then simply smashed the laptop against his forehead. Ezio felt only vaguely bad about it. He gave the Templar a cuff in the back and send him to the floor.

Squaring his shoulders, Ezio turned smoothly back to the open door and the elderly man who was looking back at him open-mouthed. He gave a surprised yelp when Ezio brushed past him, but offered no resistance.

He had to slow down, though, in the temporary silence, to orient himself. They had not had maps for this part of the airport and, in all honesty, hadn't truly expected to need them.

Trusting his senses, Ezio trekked forward, mapping the place in his mind as he went to prevent getting lost.

The silence was eerie after the buzz of the airport outside, but it was a tense, charged soundlessness in which even Ezio's practised steps appeared loud.

He arrived at a fire exit door. He glanced up at it, and could tell it was going to set off an alarm if he as much as touched it. He gave a slight shrug, put his hand on the handle and pushed through.

A narrow alley greeted him behind it and the sense of aloneness vanished instantly. He had at least suspected he would find a welcoming committee waiting for him at some point, but this, he thought bemusedly, was perhaps a little much.

The alley was filled with policemen, but he spotted behind their lines other men and women, wearing different uniforms and combat gear, each with the discreet and unobtrusive Templar cross somewhere on their collars.

Ezio let the door fall closed behind him and took a few steps forward to gain some space around himself.

"Well," said Vidic's sneering voice as he stood up behind several lines of Ezio's potential captors. "The Assassins haven't had someone of your skill in a long while. I believe you are more than meets the eye."

"I don't care what you believe," Ezio said. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pants. "But I'll tell you what I know. You will not kill me. You are too curious and too greedy to risk losing whatever information I can give." He put the cigarette to his lips. In lighting up he stole a quick glance at the surrounding rooftops and the men posted there.

"So," Ezio continued, letting smoke trail peacefully between them. "I shall make you a bet."

"You have nothing of value," Vidic declared, but his very willingness to keep talking betrayed his interest.

Ezio continued as if he had never spoken. A slight smile played on his lips. "A promise, then, Templar, if you don't want to play. Only one of us will walk away from here, and it will not be you."

* * *

Lucy watched Altaïr from across the street. She leaned casually on their car, taking the opportunity to study him in the unexpected peace. They had arrived on a small airport outside Guatemala City the night before.

Now, Altaïr was waiting for a contact of his to get them set up. Useful, Altaïr described him, useful and a little insane, which was why he had gone on his own. Desmond had wandered down the street to a bakery, muttering something about missing the scent of fresh bread as he did. He had been unusually quiet during the flight and Lucy worried that something worse was amiss than what they already knew, but she didn't want to push him. She trusted him to share what was going on when he felt it might mean anything to them.

Altaïr sat in a street cafe, with a large cup of coffee in front of him and leafing through some magazine as he waited. A common enough sight, certainly, but from her vantage point, Lucy had the opportunity to watch the pattern of movement change around him. It took some time to make itself known, this strange gravitational pull which Altaïr possessed. The way people kept a slightly wider distance from his table and the way their attention lingered for just a moment longer on him while they looked for a free seat. She wondered what people saw, what they thought in those tiny moments, whether they even realised what was happening. If they were told who and what he was, would they actually believe it?

He wore only one blade now, its gauntlet only partially hidden under the sleeve, but a casual observer would probably take it for a bandage of some sort and then forget all about it. He still favoured the left when fighting and idly, Lucy wondered whether perhaps one day someone would come along who could make use of that knowledge.

A small man suddenly appeared at the edge of the seated area and slipped forward, sitting down in the chair opposite Altaïr. They talked, the small man scribbling quickly in a notebook he had pulled him his pocket. The waitress arrived, smiled at the newcomer but kept stealing glances at Altaïr while she tried to convince him to order something. Altaïr talked, seemed to recount something of a list. A little discussion followed and Lucy saw the small man make something that looked like an aggressive move towards Altaïr which was stilled, immediately, under a searing glare. Lucy could feel its blast from where she stood. It cowed the man immediately. He nodded meekly, packed his notebook and scuttled away as hastily as he had come.

Lucy pushed herself from the car and made her way across, taking the seat Altaïr's contact had just vacated.

She met Altaïr's gaze across the table. She had wanted to ascertain his reality, she knew, she had asked for some kind of reassurance of it, that she was not dreaming and that he was human. And now as well as then, she still did not understand him. Desmond had called him a mystery when Desmond was probably the only one who had weathered Altaïr's sudden appearance with less apparent trouble than any of them. The bleeding effect, Lucy suspected. By putting Desmond in the Animus they had made sure of that.

Lucy had no such connection to offer, no such certainty.

"Quincey will get us a suitable location," Altaïr said instead of a greeting. "The Animus parts are in his care, too, and he'll arrange for the transport."

"What was that at the end?" she asked.

Altaïr smiled a little. "Every time I have dealings with him, he asks for double the money he deserves. Personally, I think he just enjoys baiting me. But he is useful and efficient in what he does."

The waitress appeared; her gaze slipped across Altaïr and came to rest on Lucy. "What can I get you?" she asked with frost lacing her dutiful smile.

"Papaya juice," Lucy replied and when the girl withdrew she gave Altaïr a slow smirk. "I think that looked like jealousy."

She meant it in jest, but while she saw the humour spark in his eyes, it didn't last. She thought she knew what he was going to say and she didn't want to hear it. On impulse she reached across the table and put her hand at the side of his face, he leant into the touch for no longer than a heartbeat, than wrapped his own hand around hers and pushed her away gently, keeping hold of her hand.

"Why?" he asked, even though it was barely a question and he certainly already knew the answer better than she did herself. It was an offer to talk, if she wanted it, or felt like she needed to.

He had not let go of her hand, thumb moving lightly across her palm, just enough to make her skin tingle with the touch.

"Because everything is permitted," she replied.

His caress stopped abruptly, startling her and making something like involuntary fear travel down her spine until she realised that nothing dangerous was clouding his eyes.

He seemed removed, barely still held in the present, anchored only on the thin thread of her hand. The memory of loss flared up for no more than a split second, tangible in the warm air between them, driven by the force of exploding suns.

Then he smiled, suddenly, brightly, ravishingly and her breath hitched.

"That is a good reason," he observed, voice wavering between amusement and a dark, soft purr.

Lucy slipped her hand from his, but only so she could use to support her as she leaned forward, across the feeble plastic divide of the table and kissed him as deeply as she could, running out of breath she thought she could taste the memory of scorched desert sands on her tongue.

* * *

_"I played with fire, did counsell spurn_

_But never thought that fire would burn."_

_-Henry Vaughan, Silex Scintillans II #15_

* * *

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the late update. This chapter was a little difficult.

I had too much fun with Spanish names.


	9. When Defeat Is Inevitable

_Thanks, as always, to Crazy Penguin Lord for beta-reading and general input!_

* * *

**Chapter 9: When Defeat Is Inevitable**

Two glimpses Vidic had had of the Assassin as he fought - the first, brief encounter in the interrogation room when the speed and accuracy of it had left him deeply unsettled and the second scene on a video screen in silent black and white had been almost a mockery of a fight. But neither of these prepared him for the way the fight went later, outside where they had the Assassin cornered. Far from being daunted by the sheer number of his opponents, the Assassin actually played with them, used their numbers against them in the narrow alley and, initially unarmed, took whatever weapon he pleased from his opponents as if they weren't resisting at all.

By the time Vidic realised that sparing the Assassin was proving to be more trouble than he could possibly be worth, it was too late. All their army scattered, some dead, others unconscious, and those who still stood upright drawing back warily, unwilling to directly disobey but equally unwilling to attack that one man. Vidic's mind was working at lightning speed, trying to put the pieces together. There was an image in this, a pattern which he had seen before, if only he could put his finger on it... His throat constricted in subconscious dread. He had once seen a man fight an army like that, with the same lethal skill and speed, the same ruthless invincibility of Altaïr fighting his way to Arsuf.

But before Vidic could draw conclusions from this realisation, before his mind had even finished the line of thought, the Assassin came for him, laughing and unstoppable, and dragged Vidic off and away, like the girl in some damned Hollywood film. He was taken to the roof of a smaller building, at the side of the action, out of view of whatever men he still had at his disposal.

Hanging over the side of the building, grappling with all his might, Vidic pushed his fingers into the ground. There was a tiny ledge under his feet, at the side of the building, just enough space for his toes. "Help me," he gasped desperately.

He saw the Assassin, sitting a little away, with his feet dangling down. The Assassin chuckled darkly.

"Not yet," he said.

"Whatever you want!" Vidic said; talking was difficult, he had no breath to spare, and the strength was melting in his arms like snow in spring. "I can give it to you, I swear."

It wasn't a particularly long drop, it might even seem harmless, but it was more than enough to break most of his bones.

The Assassin seemed amused. "What do you know about Desmond Miles, Templar?"

Vidic hissed and gasped, coughing on the dust he was tearing lose. "He's a damned nuisance!"

It was difficult to remember what value Miles once had held, in this moment. Miles was not worth dying for, as far as was Vidic was concerned.

"What do you know about Italians?"

The remark was so puzzling to Vidic that he lost his footing and nearly fell. "Italians?" he repeated, incredulous in spite of the situation.

The Assassin stirred, came to fluid life as he regained his feet and sat back on his heels so he could face Vidic. He reached out with one hand to grip Vidic's wrist and steady him momentarily. Vidic stilled his struggles, caught in the Assassin's gaze and with the reassurance of strength in the other's hand. Strong enough, surely, to pull him back to safety.

"Yes, Italians," the Assassin said conversationally. "We tend to be very family-oriented. Don't go insulting one of mine if you want me to spare you."

The fight had barely scratched him. The collar of his shirt was torn, exposing an expanse of flawless skin, but he wore it like some particularly fashionable design.

"What I want, you can't give me," the Assassin continued. "What you _can_ do, is stop pursuing us."

Vidic nearly laughed. How much influence did he think he had? Even if Vidic somehow could pull himself out of the affair, the entire order of Templars was involved in this and Vidic hardly had the power to pull them off.

"How am I supposed to?" he asked through clenched teeth. His fingers were raw, turning bloody from scratching over the concrete.

"You should be asking _why," _Ezio said. He leaned forward a little more, his grip tightening and the smile, suddenly so close to Vidic's face, was vicious. "We are trying to save all of us and you, in your hollow greed, have not realised what this is all about. You've used Desmond Miles, but you never had any idea of his true value."

"The hell are you talking about?" Vidic squirmed under the gaze, nearly winding himself out of Ezio's hold.

"I'm talking about the end of the world, Templar," Ezio said harshly. "Let us do what we must and then maybe we'll still live to find which of us wins the war."

"Ridiculous," was all Vidic could push forth.

Ezio let go. Vidic gave a sharp scream, toes desperately digging into the narrow ledge, hands gripping at nothing, leaving bloody smears behind.

"It's your call," Ezio remarked and turned to go.

Belatedly, Vidic realised that he really intended to go. He should have agreed, Vidic thought, should have said everything he thought that infernal Assassin wanted to hear, but instead the man had sounded ludicrously addled. The end of the world, now? How could he not expect Vidic to laugh in his face?

But the Assassin was walking away now, not looking back even once and he didn't believe it when Vidic called out how he had changed his mind, how he believed him, how he would do everything to convince his superiors.

Vidic didn't stop, even when he knew the Assassin must be out of reach. Only when his strength was gone did he fall nearly silent. The ground yawned below him, like a mythical monster ready to swallow him whole.

* * *

Quincey was a strange little man. He seemed genuinely afraid of both Lucy and Desmond, forcing them to walk a few steps behind while he showed them around. Everytime they came too close, he twitched nervously away from them. He stuck close to Altaïr, as if Altaïr wasn't by far the most dangerous of them all.

"It's got air-conditioning," Quincey said. "But don't rake it up too high or it'll break. There is something like a dormitory on the gallery, military issue bunk-beds, but marginally better than the floor, and a teensy-weensy kitchen."

Desmond looked up at the metal gallery, suspended halfway between floor and ceiling of the warehouse. Everything about the place had an unused quality to it, as if it had been abandoned centuries ago and been only recently excavated.

"Showers and toilets are below it. Nothing fancy, I'm afraid," he gave Altaïr a conspiratorial smirk. "But nothing as bad as some of your past experiences."

"Times come and go," Altaïr said neutrally.

Quincey sniggered. "Don't they just."

They reached the centre of the warehouse, where crude desks and tables had been set up. The furniture looked mismatched, as if someone had assembled them haphazardly from a bulky waste pile and dumped them unordered into the warehouse.

"Internet access and telephone," Quincey continued. "Not the best connections either way, but it'll do." Another smirk. "You asked for low-key anyway, so there."

Thick cables emerged from the floor, where the withered boards had recently been hacked away. They ended in a control box, fridge-sized, which hummed quietly even now with ventilation and electricity.

"We need another car," Altaïr said. "And weapons."

Quincey pulled a wide grin, danced around on his heels. "Car? No problem. _And _I just knew you were going to ask for an arsenal. Just take a look in the last room on the gallery. Should be every weapon-fetishist's wet dream. But if it's not enough to satisfy you... give me a call." And he sniggered again.

Quincey's comment brushed off of Altaïr without leaving a dent. "How secure is this place?"

"How defendable you mean? Well, you're certainly better equipped to judge that. The hall has three doors and the gate where we drove in. Good locks, though. There are security cameras outside of them, look discreet enough to me_. _They are not wired in, I haven't set anything up."

"Good," Altaïr said. "I think that's all."

Quincey nodded emphatically. "Always a pleasure doing business with you." His gaze wavered over Desmond and Lucy, who had stopped outside the circle of furniture. Real fear crossed his face as if he suddenly remembered them and whatever fantastical danger they represented.

"Have fun," Quincey said and made for the one door that kept him farthest from them.

"Strange guy," Desmond said. He deposited the paper bag with his bakery spoils on the nearest table and lowered himself carefully in a chair. It creaked under his weight but held on, rather to his surprise. "Was he hitting on you and being afraid of us?"

"No and yes," Altaïr replied calmly. He was still scanning their surrounding, paying attention to the far corners of the hall and the distant doors. "As far as Quincey is concerned, harmless people are likely to kill him. He can do deals with the dangerous ones."

Desmond planted his elbow on the table and put his chin in his hand. "Sounds quite reasonable to me, you know. Except Lucy could take him apart just as easily."

Altaïr smiled thinly. "And so could you, but Quincey is wholly insane."

Desmond was about to argue that first point Altaïr had made, but Lucy called from across the hall.

"Time to start working!"

At the end of the hall, a small truck was parked. All of its space was filled with an assortment of boxes of all colours and sizes. The Animus had been dissembled into almost all of its parts, packed up, and sent across country. No two packages looked alike, and from what Desmond could see, they had all been addressed to different recipients as well.

"The Animus jigsaw puzzle?" Desmond asked.

Lucy had climbed into the truck and now thrust a package at him. "We've got an expert working for us."

She looked past Desmond at Altaïr. "Which reminds me, the others should have landed by now, I'm a little worried that they haven't been in contact yet."

Desmond held his package a little in front of him, scrutinising it, trying to fathom its contents. The Animus, packed in all those little pieces, seemed rather less terrifying than it once had been. He carried his box back to the desks and put it down.

There was no discernible pattern of how Lucy selected the packages she handed him, more often than not telling him where to put it down. He felt rather like they were setting the pieces for some strange summoning ritual, calling a demon into their midst once everything was in order. And here he was, the sacrificial lamb for all of this, helping to set up the slaughter.

He strode back to the truck.

Altaïr was wandering off, with the cellphone at his ear, giving the doors of the hall a much closer inspection. There was a slight echo of a vaguely impatient snort from him, then he said, "No, don't. - Of course he can handle it, there is no need to worry. - I'll come pick you up."

Lucy pushed another package into Desmond's arms as she watched Altaïr return. She frowned. "What happened?"

"The Templars expected your friends at the airport. Ezio must have been mistaken for Desmond, and the Templars used the chance."

"Why me?" Desmond asked and nearly laughed at the widespread, beautiful symbolism of that simple question. His life, he thought wearily, probably could be summed up with those two words.

"Terrorist," Altaïr explained matter-of-factly. "And we do indeed look a lot alike. However, Rebecca and Shaun are fine and on the way to pickup."

"Ezio?" Desmond asked.

"Ezio will take care of himself," Altaïr replied. "Just as he always does."

Tension. It hung in the stale air suddenly with the distant power of an approaching thunderstorm. Doubtless, Ezio could get himself out of any given dire situation. Desmond remembered it from when the man had only been in his twenties, after all, when he still had to make do without centuries of experience to aid him. But there was an added layer in Altaïr's voice and it tasted like an old argument to Desmond's mind, which was so attuned, by default, to both these men.

Desmond tried to picture it, that meeting between them, but his imagination stuttered to a halt at the vague worry it created. It had been there before, of course, that faint level of misgiving in the few occasions that Altaïr had mentioned Ezio, an emotion somewhere close to disappointment, which made no sense within the context of both men. Something had burned between them sometime in the past, and the air had not yet cleared of the ashes.

Lucy seemed to sense it too, Desmond could tell by the way the frown stayed on her face as her gaze tracked Altaïr until he had left the hall.

Then she visibly shook herself out of it, gave Desmond a brief smile and said, "Well, no time to waste. Think of it as free exercise."

* * *

Desmond dreamt, but it wasn't quite the same thing as before.

He stood at the centre of darkness, suspended, until a white streak cut the past his fast, sharp, edged, like a tear in reality. It slowed down, drew a blazing white trail in circles around Desmond. He watched the dance, mesmerised, puzzled, until something whispered to him and he tentatively extended one arm. When he did, the eagle gave a high-pitched scream - it sounded almost like acknowledgement - and sat down on his arm. Obsidian talons bit into his flesh without pity, shredding his shirt within moments and tearing his skin. Blood poured from the wounds and fell away into the darkness at his feet. Curiously, there was no pain at first, only a vague tingling sensation as if he was coming alive.

Something moved. He more felt than saw it, from the corner of his eyes, and he twisted, haunted, peering into the dark. A woman stood there, dark-haired, painfully beautiful dressed in a laced, white dress. She spoke, rapidly, urgently, and he couldn't quite understand what she was saying at first. He knew her, somehow, knew what she was saying on some level. It sounded like Gaelic, even though he had never heard it before.

The eagle took off from his arm, making the dark bleed away as it went, dropping him into a whirlwind of images and emotion, faces swam past his vision, talking, smiling, screaming, dying. He felt Altaïr, somewhere, familiar in a sea of strangeness, looking down on the five fingers of his hand for the last time. Someone whispered Moorish poetry in his ear, huskily, sending a tangy spike of lust down his body only to have it wiped away at searing, unspeakable pain as his finger was severed.

Suddenly, solidly, he stood on a polished floor. It felt so utterly real, he nearly staggered. An open door loomed across from him and he felt filled with dread and love and exhilaration. An elderly woman appeared in the door. She smiled tiredly, "All is well, Master Auditore. The girl is healthy and the mother is only exhausted."

"Francesca," Desmond said with Ezio's voice. "We'll call her Francesca."

The world fell away.

Desmond stood in the desert, though whether it was the same or a different one was beyond him to judge. A city shimmered in the distance, faint like a Fata Morgana, but too huge to be anything but real.

The stone lion approached him, trotting slowly towards Desmond. It had the white eagle in its mouth, its feathers bloodied, its body torn and mutilated.

Where it had grown to enormous proportions last time, now it had shrunk to almost the size of a house-cat. The lion's eyes glittered animatedly but without aggression. Keeping them fixed on Desmond, it put the dead eagle down at Desmond's feet and withdrew, edging backwards and away from him as if it feared an attack.

Blood still ran from Desmond's arm, soaking the sand at his feet. Pain reared up suddenly and smashed him to his knees and back into darkness.

Desmond startled awake, disorientation unsettling him before he worked out where he was and let himself fall back on the narrow bed. Thick, liquid sunset light filtered in through narrow windows high up on the wall above. He vaguely remembered deciding to take a nap, but he drew nothing but blanks after that.

More tired now than he had been when he had laid down, he took a few deep breaths to bring his heartbeat back to normal.

Pain.

Frowning, he lifted his arm up in front of his eyes and saw the scratches on the skin. He had inflicted them on himself; the bits of skin and blood stuck under his nails were proof of that.

He groaned.

He pushed himself up and struggled to his feet, still groggy. He padded to his small bag and went through it messily, pulling a long-sleeved shirt out. It was far too warm to wear it, but he didn't feel up for the soul-searching Lucy would demand when she saw the scratches. He left it hanging open so he didn't completely suffocate.

In the hall of the warehouse, Rebecca and Shaun had long since arrived. It had been late afternoon when Desmond had taken his break and in the intervening hours they had nearly finished setting up the Animus.

Rebecca had dived into the control box and Lucy stood at her side with a variety of tools in her hand. At the back of the hall, Shaun was unrolling a cable from its drum.

Altaïr, at one of the desks and in front of three laptops, tilted his head slightly in Desmond's direction, indicating he had heard the quiet approach.

"I can't say I like the sight of that," Desmond remarked to himself.

Rebecca emerged from the control box and grinned at him. "And here I thought you liked me."

Desmond forced an answering smile. As always, the dream was difficult to shake and he thought he still saw echoes of movement where there couldn't be any.

"Oh, it's not you. It's your baby."

"Don't worry," Lucy assured him. "We don't have the time for an extended session, but unless we hook you up we won't figure out what those dreams of yours mean."

Desmond walked forward, pulled a chair close and slumped down on it untidily. "I'm all ears," he said.

Rebecca hesitated for a moment, gathering her thoughts, then nodded.

"I think you know that Abstergo got the basic blueprint and programme code for the Animus through the Apple - or at least some other artefact, we've never found out for certain. From Those Who Came Before, anyway. The code was altered, but the guys at Abstergo only figured out what half the code does so they left the rest in peace. No one really looked closely at the stuff as long as it was working. There is a tiny code fragment in that old programming. It's composed of several parts. One is a search algorithm, scanning everyone who enters the Animus. If it finds what it's looking for, the second part activates and transmits a message. Now, the weirdest part is, the message expects a response."

Desmond felt his brows drew close to each other. Nothing of what she'd said seemed particularly shocking to him, at least not at this junction of events. "What's supposed to respond?" Desmond asked.

Rebecca glanced at Lucy. Shaun was done with the cable and strode back to the desks, leaning against one as he watched Desmond. Altaïr, too, had turned away from his work and seemed to be waiting for something.

Rebecca said, "I'm not completely sure. But I think it scans for a certain DNA signature. The response is written in that DNA, I think."

"In mine?" Desmond asked, just to be absolutely certain he had understood this correctly.

"I think the eagle you've been dreaming about, that's how the message manifested, but we need to get the message and response together inside the system."

"What'll happen?"

Another silence, tense this time. It was Shaun who answered, sardonic British accent for once without sting. "None of us has any bloody idea. But really, what difference does it make?"

Desmond stared at him across the sunlit space. Shaun was right. In too deep, in to the end. His mother had said that once.

One of these days he was going to try and find out what had happened to his parents.

"Yeah," Desmond said with as much eloquence as he could muster. "When do we start?"

"As soon as I'm done," Rebecca said. "And I'd rather run a few tests before I let you in, too."

Somehow, that failed to reassure Desmond, but he only managed a shrug. "Something I can do to help?"

"Yes, since you are asking," Shaun said. "Help me set up the cameras. With the Templars that close on our trail I'd rather not sit around entirely blind to my surroundings."

* * *

The last light of the sun faded into a dull, steel-grey. Clouds were slowly gathering and the wind was picking up when Desmond came down from the ladder at the last door. The cameras were at least two decades old, transmitting blurry black-and-white images of jerky movements to the split-screen on Shaun's monitor.

"Thanks," Shaun told Desmond dismissively. "I think you've exhausted your usefulness for now."

Desmond lacked the will to work up a good glare at him. The scratches on his arm were aching and it annoyed him. Such shallow wounds, his instincts told him, they shouldn't matter. Yeah, he answered himself, but these actually mean something.

Nursing a cup of bitter, black coffee, Desmond found himself an unoccupied chair outside the circle of desks and put his legs up on the pile of discarded packages.

The darkness crawled from the corners, closer with every passing minute. Then, with a quick flourish, Rebecca switched on the lights. They came to life reluctantly, and a few of them died down again immediately. White light flooded the hall, drawing fuzzy shadows and glaring, artificial brightness.

The part of Desmond which no longer completely belonged to him registered the distant sound, the slight screech of a door opening and closing. He had time to realise that Shaun had the doors covered and there weren't going to be any uninvited guests. No need, then, to be alarmed. Except, of course, he had developed a sense for danger. Nothing that compared to his ancestors' honed senses, but enough to make his muscles tighten in readiness before his mind even registered the cause.

Ezio walked in, and the hall in all its huge near-emptiness seemed to shrink down around them until there was not enough room left in which to move - or even breathe - at all. Silence fell like lead in his wake, broken and enforced by the rhythmic clicks of his boots on the dirty floor.

Altaïr's gaze passed over Desmond before he fixed it, unblinking, on Ezio. A frosty shiver ran up and down Desmond's spine, recognising the subtle shifts in Altaïr's posture, the way he had pushed his chair just that slightest bit away from the table, just enough so he could spring to his feet in a heartbeat.

Ezio came too close, forcing Altaïr to tilt his head back a little, forcing him to expose his throat. Time slowed and stopped, danced uncertainly along the motionless forms of both Assassins like an ocean beating against rock.

And in this curious stillness, Desmond thought he could see the sparks around them, his perception of them suddenly conflicted and contrasting. No longer that overwhelming sense of _ally _that Altaïr had always conveyed, but something new and dangerous. In that instant, Desmond was certain, beyond any doubt, that the moment would break and shatter into violence. And he knew, too, that watching it happen would tear him apart.

They could have remained like this forever, poised on the edge, heedless of the imminent fall, easily balanced against death and not afraid of either.

And then, like all the promises of childhood fairy tales coming true, the moment dispersed, fluttered away like a swarm of scared birds. Time and warmth came flooding back like whitewater. Lightly, almost carelessly, Ezio stepped away from Altaïr, leaving the tension behind like an inconsequential splatter of blood.

Ezio twirled around on his heels and and a smile lit his face, warm and brilliant, especially against the frost from a moment before.

"And you," Ezio said brightly, "must be the fabled Desmond."

But Desmond was still enthralled, incapable of movement, endlessly fascinated by the way feeling and sound returned as reality wearily reclaimed its dominance. Tentatively, the others slowly returned to their work, their eyes darting up and over them now and then, voices still a little hushed.

Altaïr was looking at Desmond steadily with that liquid metal in his eyes, that predator's gaze that never blinked and Ezio, Desmond thought, Ezio had turned his back to it.

Altaïr let the moment slip, just like Ezio had done before, setting Desmond free.

Awkwardly, Desmond got to his feet and nearly spilled his coffee, but Ezio paid it no heed and pulled Desmond into a hearty embrace.

* * *

_When defeat is inevitable, it is wisest to yield. - Quintilian_


	10. Mene, Mene, Tekel Upharsin

_**Edit:** Changed one line. Lucy now has met Subject Sixteen._

* * *

_Thanks to Crazy Penguin Lord for beta-reading (and not despairing of me and my grammar in the process)!_

* * *

**Chapter 10: Mene, Mene, Tekel Upharsin**

Climbing the side of a warehouse should be easy. Not much of a challenge for an Assassin, even blindfolded and with both his hands tied to his back, Desmond thought grudgingly. It was rough wall at the worst, with crevices and nooks all over the place. Containers and long forgotten crates littered the ground all around, stable and stacked high enough to get him up part of of the way. To Desmond, it looked like the entire, damned setup was mocking him and his borrowed skills making the Assassins' voices in his head growl in irritation.

If not for that, maybe he would have turned away. It was an easy conclusion to make; after all, if Altaïr had gone to the roof, he had done it to be alone, and only an utter fool would intrude on him there.

On the other hand, Desmond found that common sense was in short supply anyway, and if he had had any of it to start with, he probably wouldn't be anywhere near this entire mess now. Besides, something had briefly shivered in him, too; it felt like sadness and bitterness, but it didn't feel _old _the way he somehow expected. Somehow, something had torn a fresh wound past the mental armour which Altaïr had had centuries to perfect.

Earlier, Altaïr had hacked Abstergo again, trying to get a handle on how much they knew and how close they were on their tracks. Suddenly, he had lifted his head and asked, "Lucy? What do you know about Subject Sixteen?"

His tone of voice was off, calling attention beyond what the simple question would have warranted.

Lucy had walked over to him and leaned against the desk at his side. "I was assigned to Sixteen very late and I met him only briefly before… he died,"

she had said. "Abstergo abused him badly until his mind snapped. They had hoped he would have memories of the Apple, but he didn't. That's why they brought in Desmond in the first place."

Altaïr had looked past her. "But he was a descendant of mine?"

"Most of his memories suggest it, but I wasn't privy to the specifics of it."

Altaïr hadn't reacted for a long minute. Then he had whispered. "There was a child."

"Altaïr..." Lucy had began and then faltered. "I thought you knew about Subject Sixteen."

But he had waved her off, silently, and when it became clear that he was unwilling to continue the conversation, the others had returned to their work, although the mood took a long time to recover. _When_ Altaïr had vanished, Desmond couldn't quite recall, only that suddenly he was gone and Desmond knew, beyond doubt, that the eagle had sought some higher place.

The sky above was hung with bulging clouds, ominously lit by sheet lightning travelling up and down the horizon. It wasn't the season for rain, but the wind tucked harshly at Desmond as he finally stood up on the roof and pretended he wasn't breathing any faster after the climb.

Altaïr sat with one long leg hooked against a pipe and his back against an unused chimney, the other extended casually before him. He tilted his head slightly to acknowledge Desmond's presence.

"Do you, uhm, want to talk about it?" Desmond asked uncertainly, while the memory of Altaïr in his head seemed as undecided on the topic as the man himself.

Altaïr merely shook his head, just slightly, and a smile ghosted over his sombre features.

"You took a difficult route to come here, there is a ladder over there."

"Yeah, well, I figured trying couldn't hurt." Desmond stepped forward and sat down cross-legged, saying, "Unless I fell, that is."

"You are better than you give yourself credit for."

And with that coming from Altaïr, he was instinctively inclined to believe him and disregard his own impression.

They sat in silence as lightning crackled across the sky. The glimmer of fading day was a thin silver lining in the distance, almost swallowed up the city lights. It was, Desmond thought, a rather good impression of a doomsday scenery. The clouds looked solid enough, low enough to touch them with an outstretched hand, ready to smother all the life that buzzed below them.

The quiet scrape of boots on the dirty roof tore Desmond out, away from his thoughts of the coming apocalypse. For a split second, Desmond was startled, frayed nerves expecting all kinds of attack, but Altaïr remained relaxed.

Twisting, Desmond watched as Ezio wandered into view.

"So I hear the rookie didn't find the ladder?" Ezio said as he dropped down at Desmond's side. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and held it out to Desmond, who looked at them as if he had never seen their like before.

"I didn't know you smoked."

"I get little chance to express my self-destructive tendencies."

"There is no guarantee that these things won't kill you," Altaïr said, but reached past, much to Desmond's shock, and took a cigarette for himself.

In the huge open space of the warehouse, the differences between Altaïr and Ezio had drawn themselves in sharp relief. Altaïr with his tightly-coiled intensity, always lethal and always with that hint of coldness; he never let you forget you were in the presence of a killer. Ezio, on the other hand, _sprawled. _Up here, their similarities suddenly belied any superfluous difference.

The tension between both Assassins never went away; it wavered in the air, not unlike the lightning now illuminating the darkness, waxing and waning seemingly at random and putting everyone's teeth on edge. Not because they would be halfway at each other's throat, but because the impression remained that they _had _fought, once, and neither had liked the outcome. Nothing had been resolved between them, nothing was finished, they had merely postponed this fight between them to some later date and with both of them unaging, they had the time.

All that was muted now, replaced in this odd corner of time and space by something shared and companionable.

Desmond could tell, knowing something of both men, that this was a respite, an illusionary moment of quiet. Nothing else seemed to matter here and now. And the invitation was there - by a pointless, casual token - to join them for real and not in some virtual, computer controlled environment.

He had smoked for a while, after leaving his parents and their strange world. It had been an act of defiance, then, a way to prove his newly found freedom. It had quickly become meaningless, though, expensive, inconvenient and besides, he hadn't wanted to waste his health away. Now, however, it seemed unlikely that lung cancer, decades from now, would be a problem.

Ezio lit up for all of them, three tiny points of bright warmth against the steel-grey of the clouds and the white-blue of lightning.

The smoke grated in Desmond's throat. In that moment, it tasted of anger and rage and scorned pride, coming to him across the centuries. This close to Altaïr, he thought he felt a connection, like an Animus malfunction, when he failed to jump into the other's skin and only received a steady trickle of knowledge, or thoughts, or feelings.

When at length Altaïr began to speak, it was in the same quiet tone he had used before. It sounded almost laconic, a thin layer of armour reconstructed across vulnerability.

"There was a woman once."

And, softly, Ezio said, "Doesn't it always start like this?"

Altaïr met Ezio's gaze past Desmond and held it for a moment. "I knew her before," Altaïr continued, then paused as if searching for words. "Before everything. Before Al'Mualim betrayed us and set me to hunt his enemies, before he made me kill him. So very long before I looked into the Piece of Eden and got lost." He fell silent again, picked his words carefully, deliberately. The emotion there was raw, but muted, strange to him after such a long time. "I swore to keep her safe and I failed. I swore to find her, but when I did, the Templars had already taken her life."

It stirred in Desmond's memory now, roused by Altaïr's words, seeping though and tainting his thoughts with sudden flashes of crimson and he heard an echo of screams. Blood splattered across his cheek and Desmond had already lifted his hand to wipe it away before he remembered it wasn't there at all.

"You killed them all," Ezio said. It wasn't a question. Revenge was a familiar thought.

"No, I didn't," Altaïr said slowly. "I followed the traces the Templars had left behind and tracked them to a fortress in Albania. I didn't kill them all. I spared one knight. I send him back to his masters as a warning."

_Do not challenge me, ever again, or what you saw here will seem like a taste of mercy compared to what I will do to your order. _The words were full of cold rage on his tongue. Desmond sucked hard on the cigarette. A young man's face swam up in front of his mind's eye, splattered with the blood of his brothers-in-arms, eyes wide with horror and the certainty of death burning in them.

Altaïr shifted, startled Desmond, lifted his voice a little. "But I didn't know there was a child, seems they had the trump all along."

Desmond would never have said anything. He was still struggling with the foreign memories, the feelings and tastes of harsher days, but Ezio had no such qualms.

"How do you know? That it was that particular woman?" he said. It was almost a challenge, Desmond could tell.

"I saw the files," Altaïr said simply. "Everything makes sense."

"That doesn't make it _true_," Ezio said pointedly.

Faintly, Desmond wondered how far Altaïr was willing to have himself pushed. The revelation hurt him, even though it was centuries past now and he was too much of pragmatist not to know that. If Ezio did not relent... but Ezio never meant to hurt, belatedly Desmond realised it. Ezio understood both pain and suffering and his way, from those hot days of his youth until now, _his_ way of dealing with loss was facing it head-on and with his teeth bared. And he was doing it now, too, with his cigarettes and his directness, because he was the only one from whom Altaïr would accept both.

Desmond looked at Ezio, saw the sparkle in his dark eyes, and Desmond almost thought he saw him wink, but he could be mistaken in the uncertain light

Altaïr stubbed out the cigarette and regained his feet. The connection between them flared out, grew thin and faint.

Altaïr looked down on Ezio and Desmond, his expression unreadable against the still flaring sky. "Rebecca should be done with her test run," he observed. And all the armour was in place again, leaving Desmond with nothing but the scent of fresh blood in his nostrils and the scratch of smoke in his throat.

He would have to climb back down now, walk back into the warehouse and submit his mind and the sorry remainder of his sanity to the Animus.

Desmond completely failed to suppress a groan. Ezio threw his arm around him and pulled, until Desmond rested against the Assassin's shoulder.

"I could almost think you didn't like me," Ezio said with a chuckle.

Desmond pushed himself off of Ezio, feeling somewhere between a little brother and someone's son. "I like you fine," he said. "As long as you stay outside my head."

He wouldn't have been surprised if Ezio had ruffled his hair. But Ezio only laughed and finally let go of him.

Altaïr put his head to the side again, an eagle's gesture, now more than ever. Then he took a step to the side, casually, over the edge of the building.

Desmond_ knew _his heart skipped a few beats; he sure as hell didn't need it, because he wasn't breathing either. The shock subsided quickly. He had jumped higher structures than this one, after all, if only in other people's memories. Ezio had the decency not to laugh aloud.

Desmond scrambled to his feet and stepped to the edge with, hopefully, no apparent hesitation. He peered down to see a pile of broken crates and an ancient looking metal container. There hadn't been a crash, though, so Altaïr hadn't even needed either of them.

Ezio appeared behind his shoulder. "Take the ladder, rookie," he said.

Desmond glared. "Do you think I'm stupid? I'd break bones I didn't even knew I had."

For a second of pure horror, he was convinced Ezio would shove him over the edge and the damned Assassin probably knew it. "We'll learn the proper techniques tomorrow," Ezio said reassuringly.

"Whatever Rebecca and her baby have left intact by tomorrow, it's all yours," Desmond said, warily and only half-jokingly. Ezio laughed again.

* * *

Back inside, the others had already grouped around the Animus chair.

"Finally," Shaun breathed impatiently, before he turned away and did something on his computer.

Rebecca patted the chair invitingly.

"It's perfectly safe," Lucy assured Desmond when he sat down.

"It's not that," he told her earnestly. "It looks like a dentist's chair, that's all."

He leaned back and tried to relax. He concentrated on the clanking of keys at his ear as Rebecca hit them, hoping vaguely the thin, rhythmic sound would lull him into some sort of meditation.

It always felt a little like falling, akin to what he once experienced with Altaïr and Ezio and their particular affinity for heights, but this wasn't nearly as pleasant. It meant freedom for both these Assassin, unbound for a few brief seconds from the constraints of existence. In the Animus, it was more like the floor getting pulled out from under him.

Then he stood in the unshaped blue virtuality of the Animus loading screen. Gingerly, he moved his hands.

"Why am I myself?" he asked. He heard an echo of his own voice being fed back to him.

"We are not loading any memories," Lucy explained. "That also means we won't be making the bleeding effect any worse."

Desmond thought of the scratches on his arm and pulled a grimace, but wasn't sure whether his real self mimicked it or not.

"Okay, I'm locating the eagle," Rebecca said. "Won't take long."

Keys yapping, a few quick mouse clicks. The blue around Desmond wavered, bulged outward and finally took shape. The white eagle sat in front of him, perched on part of the background blue folding outward in the shape of a think branch to support the eagle, but it remained undefined, hanging in nothingness.

"Can you see it?" Rebecca asked.

"Yeah," Desmond replied and eyed the bird. It returned his look steadily from pitch-black eyes. "Can't you see it, too?" he asked.

"No, our video feed is scrambled, but I expected that to happen. The Animus wasn't meant to show individual fragments of memories like that."

A faint feeling of disquiet climbed up Desmond's throat, but he doubted much could be gained if he voiced it.

Rebecca said, "Okay, I'm loading the other half of the code now." _Click, click, tap._ "As I see it, it was meant to do this automatically, but the code got corrupted over time. Here is comes."

The eagle in front of Desmond gave a high-pitched scream, too loud for an animal, almost metallic, than it spread its wings and took to the air. It flew a slow circle around Desmond, than suddenly began to expand. Desmond squinted, turning and trying to keep the bird in his field of vision. It lost shape, spread itself out thin until it looked like a sheet of milky glass. It kept growing until it formed a closed circle around Desmond. "Well," he said, "It did _something_."

"Wait," Rebecca said. Apprehension had slipped into her voice, but Desmond tried not to let it worry him.

The wall around Desmond shivered, making him blink in an attempt to focus on it. It moved. It shifted and twisted, slowly forming patterns of some kind.

At head height, a line of blurry writing manifested, condensed from the mass of the rest of the wall. It ran around Desmond like a marquee.

"It's writing," he said. "I think."

"Yes," that was Altaïr's voice. "We stabilised the video. We can see it, too."

Desmond took a step forward in an effort to get closer, but the circle moved with him, keeping him at its centre. "I can't read it."

"You wouldn't," Shaun said. "It isn't exactly a living language."

"What does it say?" Desmond asked.

"Deciphering ancient writing is an art form, not that I expect you to be aware of such intricacies" Shaun declared. "So I'll spell it out to you. It is a very difficult task and you want me to do it properly, don't rush me. Especially as this _could_ be a touch clearer."

The undefined blue around Desmond darkened, became something similar to a night sky with depth the Animus loading screen usually lacked.

Desmond made another move, but found his feet shaky under him, his sense of balance taken from him just as he had got used to its augmented, Assassin extend. The wall flexed and snapped like rubber and closed in on him.

He yelped in surprise. "Is it supposed to be doing that?" he asked, fear sneaking into the echo of his voice. It didn't seem to make sense, given that this wasn't his first ride in the Animus, and while he was unsure of what it sometimes did with his head, it wasn't dangerous enough to cause real fear. Maybe it was his loss of balance and the darkness that had him so shaken. That, and the advancing, jittery wall of writing, of course.

Rebecca muttered something, but he couldn't understand it. He heard the keys yap frantically under her fingers, though, far more so than he had ever heard them.

"Oh no no no," she sputtered rapidly. "Not good."

"Leave it," said Altaïr calmly. He couldn't be further from the agitation Desmond had heard in Rebecca's voice.

Instinctively, Desmond lifted his hands to shield his face as the wall threw itself at him, covering him from head to toe. It felt almost like water, rippling along him, enveloping him. It wasn't even unpleasant as such just _strange_, a sensation he couldn't find the words to describe. The slithering writing was in his eyes and refused to be blinked away. He knew he was falling backwards, for real this time as if he had forgotten that he was sitting in a chair. He flailed desperately. Dark blue night embraced him, wrapped around him like velvet.

Voices came from far away, severed from their meaning somehow and their familiarity rapidly fading from his memory_. _

_"I don't know what's going on_." Rebecca? Nervous and hectic. _"I'm pulling him out."_

The velvet crawled into his throat_. _

_"I said 'leave it'_!" Altaïr's voice cut clean through, like the knives he used, like the deadliness that always surrounded him. Cold ran up and down Desmond's spine, keeping the blue at bay for an instant, making it waver as if hesitating_. _

_"I don't know what it does! I can't.._."

Desmond didn't know what had interrupted her. The tapping of keys sounded like gunfire_. _

_"Rebecca, don't." _Angry, white-hot snarl. It sounded like death.

And then another voice, female, strained and strangely reasonable in all of this_. _

_"It's too dangerous, Altaïr. Cancel it, Rebecca."_

Lucy? _Save me, _Desmond thought, _I'm vanishing._ The dark was everywhere, only the writing still glowed where it had inscripted itself on the insides of his eyelids.

* * *

_"Mene, Mene, Tekel Upharsin"_

_"And this is the writing that was inscribed: MENE, MENE, TEKEL and Parsin. This is the interpretation of the matter. Mene, God has numbered the days of your kingdom and brought it to an end; TEKEL, you have been weighed on the scales and found wanting; PERES, your kingdom is divided and given to the Medes and Persian."_

_- Daniel 5:1-31_

* * *

**Author's Note: **My Subject Sixteen interpretation is a bit off, but I think canon leaves enough leeway to play it like this. If it bothers you, consider it a small slip into AU.

**_I would like to take the opportunity to thank everyone who has left a review! It's really great to find my pointless scribbles are good enough to make it worth your while! _**


	11. Dum Loquimur, Fugerit Invida Aetas

_Note: This chapter has not been beta-read_.

* * *

**Chapter 11: Dum Loquimur, Fugerit Invida Aetas**

There were voices, in a world of nothingness, they ebbed and flowed like water, drawing his attention. He listened to them for a while without comprehending or even caring. Everything seemed soft, gentle, cradling him somehow. The meaninglessness of it all was comforting, though he didn't really understand why it should be so. He felt free now, unbound from whatever had held him before. It was difficult to remember... things.

Gradually, new notes drifted to him. He couldn't tell whether they were new or whether he only then became aware of them. The voices had edges, sometimes rising and falling in emotions he had forgotten the names for.

He was lying somewhere; his body felt numb and alien, but warm and comfortable, protected from some diffuse, distant danger.

He had been doing something, he knew, something important. Blindly he groped for words, impressions - _memories -_ whatever might offer leverage by which to pull himself back to where he thought he needed to be.

Something clicked, a thin sound, so faint it shouldn't have penetrated to wherever his mind had retreated to. The faraway voices still continued their argument and vaguely Desmond wondered whether they were caught as much as he was in a place that they no longer understood.

His nose itched. Acute, sudden feeling against his dulled senses. He felt his breath travel down his nostrils and throat, stinging as it went. It carried memories with it, sliding towards him, assaulting him until he dreamed up a gravestone. A simple chunk of black marble on lush grass. The same smell in and outside of the dream, a connecting line, thin and frail, but shining red. It was tempting him to follow, too bright, too fascinating not to.

He was lying on a bed and he could identify it as his own by some faint sense of self. His name was - _not Altaïr_ - something else. His name, his mother had once told him - _not Ezio, either_ - was going to be Cameron...

"Desmond?"

He had a name; his heart cheered in relief and joy. It flared up in him, climbed from the back of his mind to the forefront and forced his eyes open. Lights danced in his vision, obscured his view, ruining whatever orientation was coming back him.

"So the geniuses didn't fry your mind."

Faint misgiving there, but calm compared to what still murmured further away. The words made no immediate sense, floating in his awareness without real meaning.

"Or did they?"

Worry now, tainting everything. The question hung there in the warmth and Desmond's eyes fluttered closed again when he turned his head as if somehow he couldn't manage it any other way.

"I..." he began and felt a slight disquiet at the idea. He hadn't felt really like himself for a long while. "Not sure," he conceded. He sounded very reasonable, he thought. So controlled, composed. It jarred somewhere with something. He didn't know.

"Do you remember what happened?"

Desmond opened his eyes again; it felt almost natural this time. Across from him, Ezio sat on a bed. Booted feet up on the covers, pillow punched and stuffed behind his neck, cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

"You started smoking at Rosa's grave," Desmond said and saw Ezio go perfectly still. Leonardo might have painted him like that, once, in some long-lost portrait that would have been known as his absolute masterpiece.

Ezio spoke slowly. "From what I understand of all of this, you can't know that."

"But I do," Desmond said. "I dreamed it. I have no fucking idea of what happened. Last thing I remember, Rebecca was loading that eagle code. It's all... very esoteric after that."

Whatever memory of loss Desmond had stirred, Ezio brushed it aside, just like that, let it curl to the ceiling along with the smoke. "They are still fighting," he said. "The Animus tried to upload something into your mind. That is when Rebecca decided to pull you out, a decision the old man did not agree with."

There was an odd connotation in the way Ezio said 'old man', not quite a honorific, not quite an insult.

Desmond frowned. "I hope no one was hurt?" he asked, only half in jest.

Ezio chuckled. "Not really. Altaïr likes his women with some spunk."

Rolling onto his back, Desmond rubbed vigorously at his eyes until the sparks returned. "Does he indeed."

Distantly, Desmond felt like he shouldn't be joking about any of this. It was _his_ mind being tossed to whatever metaphorical sharks waited for the opportunity. Then again, he was the only one entitled to it.

Ezio chuckled again, catching something in Desmond's words which he hadn't really intended to put there.

"So they are all down there deciding my fate now?" Desmond asked. "You didn't want a piece of it, too?" He took his hands away from his eyes. When Ezio made no reply, Desmond turned his head to look at him again.

"I thought maybe it would be a good idea not to leave you alone."

Desmond took a deep breath. Reaching a decision, he pushed himself first up on his elbows, then into a sitting position. When this caused no horrible bodily reaction, he swung his feet around and to the floor. "Thanks," he said. "But maybe I should go and get myself involved."

"Or you take the chance and rest," Ezio said.

Desmond watched him, realising only at his ancestor's words that he felt tired enough to make the walk back to the others seem daunting. He let himself sink back until his head rested against the wall. "How long was I out?" he asked.

"A few hours," Ezio replied. "But being unconscious doesn't count as rest."

"Dreaming the way I usually do doesn't either," Desmond shot back without much enthusiasm.

Ezio returned his look for a long moment, then stubbed out his cigarette in an empty coffee cup. "You get a shower and go to bed. I'll deal with the others."

"What are you going to do?" Desmond asked suspiciously, pushing himself to his feet stiffly.

Ezio laughed. "What do you think? I'll send them to bed, too. It's far too late. Nothing good ever comes of forcing something like that."

Desmond wanted to believe him. Wanted - desperately - to believe that things would look better, or at least different, in the morning.

Finding his way somewhat groggily to the showers, he caught snatches of the conversation.

"Look," Rebecca was saying. "I don't know what it _does." _

Altaïr sat at the edge of the Animus chair, looking up at Rebecca, holed up behind the barricade of her computer equipment. Lucy hovered somewhere between the two, notably not choosing sides, while Shaun stood on the other side of the chair, behind Altaïr.

"Exactly," Altaïr agreed. His facade of stoic calm looked thin to Desmond, the way it had always felt from the inside as well. Altaïr's temper, while usually tightly leashed, always boiled away under the surface, ready to burn whatever set it loose.

"And none of us will find out unless you load the data," Altaïr said.

"It will upload something into your mind!" Rebecca said. "I didn't even know the Animus could do that. I don't know what the hell it's going to do."

"We have been over this," Shaun said. "I agree with him. Besides, it is unlikely the upload was meant to harm."

Rebecca glared at him.

"I'm not doing it," she said. "Not until I have some idea..."

"Sometimes we must take risks," Altaïr interrupted.

The setup seemed odd to Desmond; Altaïr in the Animus? But it made sense, come to think about it, if the programme scanned for Altaïr's bloodline, they could put either of them into the machine and let it do whatever it wanted. The only reason why Altaïr was even discussing this was probably because he needed Rebecca to monitor the programme if he went in himself.

Desmond sighed. Ezio was approaching them now and Desmond was too worn out to wait for the new levels of tension his appearance would bring. He shuffled for the bathroom, leaving them all behind and locking himself under the stream of hot water.

It leeched the rest of strength from him, but, for once, the feeling was pleasant.

* * *

Whether from exhaustion or just dumb luck, Desmond slept dreamlessly that night. When he woke, the sun shone strong and hot, squeezing through the narrow windows up above and tracing clear lines across the floor. His mind surfaced slowly, jolted into finally waking by the curious _absence _of terrible nightmare after-images. He could imagine himself on some summer vacation, at the beach somewhere, sleeping in after a party night. Until, of course, he remembered where he was and why he was there.

He yawned and stretched his arms out over his head, scrapping his knuckles against the wall as he did. He had had more comfortable beds - he felt the stiffness sting his neck - and he was a little too tall for it. He curled himself upright and looked around the room. There were far more beds than people and he supposed there was some hidden revelation in how they had chosen their beds and how well they had been made after they stood up.

Someone had taken the mattresses from the unused beds, but the reason remained unclear to Desmond. For the moment, he decided not to care.

Dressing as he went, he sauntered out into the warehouse and down the metal stairs.

Rebecca was behind her screens, almost as if she hadn't moved all night, but the brightness of her eyes, when she looked up, indicated otherwise. She gave him a wide grin as she saw him.

"Good morning, Des!" she cheered. "Slept well?"

"Good morning," Desmond answered dutifully, his mind already elsewhere. "Where is everyone?"

"One of the cameras has died and Shaun's checking on it, Ezio is over there," she pointed with her arm at some spot behind Desmond's shoulder. "And Altaïr and Lucy are in the shower."

Desmond felt his eyebrows twitch upward involuntarily. He wasn't completely certain it was his own mannerism. "Together?" he asked, somewhat wearily.

Rebecca shrugged, then laughed with just the faintest hint of a blush tinting her cheeks. "Best place for some privacy around here, I'd think."

"You are adorable like that," Shaun said casually as he walked into Desmond's field of vision. "In a teenaged sort of way, of course." He dropped a handful of tools on the nearest table.

"Desmond!" Ezio called across the hall and Desmond finally turned around to face him, finding out where the mattresses had gone as he did. Barefeet and in jeans, Ezio had dragged them down here and spread them out on the floor, creating a passable padding on the rough floor.

Ezio's English was usually almost devoid of accent, but he pronounced Desmond's name like something exotic and mysterious. Considering how he had come to know the name, maybe it made sense.

Ezio waved when he had Desmond's attention, then returned to nudging the mattresses around on the floor. Accepting the inevitable, Desmond walked over towards Ezio, studying the prospective opponent with professional eye. He _did _have an advantage, after all. He knew how Ezio fought, his preferences and weaknesses, at least as they had been all those years ago. From Altaïr, Desmond had some idea of how that changed with time, how experience would have refined all skills and blunted the edges of flaws. Still, every man fought a certain way and knowing their little tricks couldn't hurt.

Desmond was, in fact, just slightly taller than Ezio - and Altaïr, for that matter - but he still tended to feel small beside them. The good looks, on display in streaks of sunlight and darkness, ran in the family, but Ezio wore them better than Desmond, with all the swaggering confidence carried over from the distant, colourful age of his youth.

Ezio gave him a grin. "It's not perfect, but it'll do, don't you think?" He studied the array of mattresses.

"Well, it probably won't be you who'll get up close and personal with it," Desmond said with a grimace.

"It's practice, not a performance," Ezio said. He walked to the side and picked up a long dagger from where it lay on a crate. "Altaïr said we should start with knives."

"It won't be you who gets carved up, either."

Ezio tossed the knife in the air, caught it again and turned towards Desmond. He gave him a long moment to adjust his reflexes, more than he normally would have, then suddenly reached back and threw the knife.

The moment the dagger left Ezio's hand, Desmond's mind spun into action, calculating and gauging direction and speed. He knew instantly the dagger would pass him by, would fly past his head and bury itself into the beam behind him. He could watch it in slow-motion, spinning through the air and the thought occurred to him that, at this speed, he didn't have to let it do that. He twisted to the side, just slightly, just far enough and felt his hand shoot up without his doing. His fingers closed on the hilt. The dagger was heavier than he had expected, the impact harder than that, causing his wrist to turn a little awkwardly.

Ezio put his hands to his hips and grinned triumphantly. "And that isn't a bad start, is it?"

Desmond stared down at the dagger in his hand. It was shorter than most of the weapons in his borrowed memories, but well-balanced and by the glint on its edge, razor-sharp.

"Alright," Desmond muttered and stepped on the mattress.

* * *

Baths and toilets had been added to the warehouse a long time after it had been built. Its walls seemed to have been erected at random, creating a long, narrow stretch of a room, covered floors and walls with uneven, yellowed tiles. Rusty shower-heads protruded from one wall and a few low toilets occupied the other. There was something of an anteroom, with a few hooks nailed to the wall at irregular intervals and two creaky chairs rotting away in a corner. The smell was of mould overlaid by more recent disinfectant.

The water was soft, though, pouring down, carrying Altaïr's touch across her entire body. There was a discord in his caress, where the finger was missing from his hand. It fascinated her, captivating, but it was still a discord and these are always acquired tastes. Here, it was a reminder of who was, of how utterly strange her world has become when it had never truly been anything like ordinary. Her's was a family of Assassins, after all. She had always lived without that comforting veil of ignorance that kept most people sane. But this, _this_ was a new measure, a new level and she could feel it slipping her control.

Lucy had always known about a line between love and lust, easy to mistake and mix those two, but they remained separate things, as often completely independent of another as they were nearly identical. She had once loved a man called Timothy. He had been her trainer before she went to Abstergo. He had died, a casualty of war and she recalled fighting tooth and nail to hold back the tears and be strong, bearing his loss.

Involuntarily, her hands slipped up his back, only twice her fingertips felt scars mar the perfect, hard smoothness. She tightened her hold on his shoulders, knowing she meant to push him away, but instead found she pulled him closer, if only for a moment.

"Stop," she said in a breathless whisper, making her hands go still if they won't obey her. He went taunt against her, the instant he needed to compose and control himself before he could draw back. He shifted to the side, pressed his shoulder against the tiles. The water had given his skin a polished, bronze sheen and the water has made his lashes even darker than usual. His eyes were bright, lit by the heat between them.

Lucy allowed herself to sag a little. The water cascaded off her shoulder, finding new pathways now that he was gone.

"I won't be siding with you," she said.

He watched her with his ancient eyes. "Was I asking you to?" he asked. A small twist at the corners of his mouth, not quite a smile, just a flicker. "Was I asking you now?" he corrected gently.

As she breathed, tiny sprinkles of water stung her, forced her to move her head away.

"We can't risk Desmond's sanity when we don't even know whether it'll be worth it," she said.

"Rebecca is the expert," he said calmly. "But I know it will take a long time to unravel that code. Time we do not have."

"It's six weeks until December," she pointed out.

"And even now, Quincey will be selling us out to the Templars."

She tensed at that revelation, feeling suddenly cold in the warmth. Altaïr seemed unconcerned. "I would think we have a few more days here. It makes no difference, since we were going to move on anyway, but we probably will have to leave the Animus behind."

Once the Animus was gone, they had no way to solve the white eagle mystery.

"The damage is already done in Desmond's head," Altaïr continued. A gust of steam obscured his face for a moment.

"We could make it worse," Lucy heard herself say. "He has been through much, he deserves a little sympathy."

"If he doesn't feel up to it, I will get in the Animus."

Lucy wasn't sure why this jolted her so much. She knew love, after all, and this was nothing like it. The thought of losing him was still staggering. "That's too dangerous," she said, but her voice was so faint she didn't think he heard it.

She hadn't realised she was no longer looking at him. Her Assassin senses had deserted her, or maybe the white noise of the shower covered the silence of his step.

Fingers on her chin tilted her head to face him.

"It is dangerous for all of us," he said. "Sometimes we must take a leap of faith."

His words triggered an odd emotion and then it slammed her back into her own memory as if she had sat down in the Animus herself. She saw herself falling, the memory as sharp in her mind as if it had happened yesterday. The Assassins had not been able to hold on to much through the centuries, ritual and hierarchy sacrificed to adaption and survival. But there was still that one moment of initiation, the moment of daring, the ultimate test of courage. _It isn't fearlessness we ask of you,_ she heard her old mentor say, _we merely ask you to overcome it. Only then can you truly be an Assassin. Only then can you be truly free. _

"What if you die?" she asked faintly.

He smiled, then, with water running down the side of his face. "You have two more chances to find a better answer."

When he kissed her, it was barely more than a soft, hot touch, desire dancing in it, but he didn't linger.

"Altaïr, please..." she breathed. She didn't know what she was asking of him in that moment. It could be 'please tell me what to do' and 'goddammit accept that I'm leading us now' and 'please take me' and 'never touch me again'. She didn't know, but she found out what he heard. He moved away from her again, breaking all contact and even though she was relieved that he had, but the sudden feeling of exposure and abandonment crashed over her like a wave. It was all she could do to keep standing still.

She was grateful he said nothing more. Grateful, too, for not making everything worse by showing understanding.

"I'll talk to Desmond," Altaïr said with business-like calm. "Take your time, we'll start once you are done."

She watched him go while a tiny part of her gasped in astonishment. It was the part that couldn't quite believe she had ruined this for herself; the part that had had Film Fridays with Leila while they had worked for Abstergo, with both of them behaving no better than giggling teenagers. Tiredness washed over her at the memory. She turned back to the shower and pressed her forehead against the tiles, letting the water beat down on her neck with unrelenting force.

Leila was dead and gone and she was an Assassin in a world that was coming to an end. It was, she thought wryly, a very, very bad moment for all the strain to take its toll.

* * *

Ezio was a better teacher than Altaïr. Either that, or Desmond was finally starting to get the hang of this game. With two knives - one long dagger, one shorter one - in his hands, Desmond felt confident for the first time. Dodging, he just _knew _the mattress was going to shift and he knew how to use it to swerve to the side, letting Ezio's lunge cut the empty air over his shoulder. Desmond pushed forward with the same momentum, so very close to Ezio then and twisted the shorter blade in his hand plunged upward. Except, of course, Ezio had known Desmond was going to do that probably longer than the man had himself. Ezio's knee jerked up and hit Desmond's wrist with enough force to make him lose the grip on his weapon.

Desmond winced at the pain, but tried to pay it no heed. He reached out with the other blade, clumsier at such close range and Desmond bent away from his opponent, straightening, still moving, still feeling the ground move treacherously. Ezio allowed Desmond the move when just as easily he could have disarmed him. Instead, he flung himself forward, hooked one leg around Desmond's before he had time to sort his limbs and brought them both down. Desmond growled as his shoulder hit the mattress and his arm - the numb one, with the shorter blade - was buried under him. He kicked out, but Ezio easily avoided him and Desmond, too, expected the move. He used his free arm to catch Ezio's, pushing it down on the ground and keeping him locked their, bringing himself back to his knees with the same motion. Ezio brought his other hand up, just in time to deflect the shorter blade going for his throat.

The slight smile in Ezio's face froze for no more than a second, but enough for Desmond to see the surprise there. With one of his hands still held and the other slithered off with Desmond's attack their faces were close; it would take only a small movement - Desmond even saw the tightening of muscle along Ezio's neck, but instead of head-butting him out, Ezio let himself fall back, laughing.

"That was _good_," he announced.

Desmond edged away carefully, just in case it was a ruse, but Ezio simply lay there, spread-eagled, where Desmond had pinned him.

Desmond didn't quite trust the feeling, but he was inclined to agree. He sat back on the mattresses, a small grin sneaking on his face, too.

"Yeah, but I'm just about ready to need another shower," Desmond said and that wasn't surprising in this heat, even without all the work. "Do you think they'd mind?"

Ezio chuckled and sat up, cocking his head sideways in the same way Altaïr sometimes did. Desmond wondered if he may had the same habit and just never realised it, or whether, perhaps, he was going to develop it.

"I have no opinion on that," Ezio declared. "However, I'm starting to feel unloved. Behaving like a gentleman doesn't seem to be paying off."

Desmond pulled a grimace, but before he could say anything, Shaun interrupted.

"Since you are having a little sit-in anyway," he said dryly. "Rebecca has tackled our little problem and needs your genetic material to do it with."

Shaun was carrying another tool past them.

"Another camera?" Desmond asked as he got to his feet.

Shaun arched a thin brow. "Yes, indeed. Shaun the Caretaker. They'll ask me to swipe the floor next." He walked off without sparing them another look.

Ezio slipped to his feet like a cat. "Rebecca is an amazing girl."

Desmond glanced at him. "Don't you dare," he said. "That'd leave me with Shaun, you know."

Ezio only grinned wider and bestowed a rather dazzling smile on Rebecca as they reached her.

It actually made her stutter, as if she momentarily forgot what she meant to say.

"Uhm, right," she finally decided. "I'm not doing anything right now, but I'd like to check some of the configs. I've written a small programme that acts as a buffer between the Animus and your mind. It'll project your signature into the Animus so we can see what it'll do _before _it does it to your mind."

"Does that sound good?" Desmond asked, but sat down anyway.

"It does," Ezio declared.

"You know less about this than I do," Desmond pointed out.

"I know enough to trust her," Ezio said and smiled again.

"Could you be any more blatant?" That was Shaun again, he tossed the tools away in an unusual show of temper.

Ezio's expression didn't change as he turned to meet Shaun's gaze. "Of course I could, but I don't want to make you blush like a virgin."

Desmond thudded his legs down audibly as he sat down in the Animus. "Just make it suck my brain out through my ears and I'll be fine."

Just possibly grateful for the chance to change the topic, Desmond heard Rebecca's chair creak as she turned to her screens. Shaun huffed, off to the side somewhere.

"It's just a quick scan," Rebecca said. "It won't hurt."

"That's what they always say," Desmond muttered. But she had been telling the truth. She didn't even fire up the Animus or put him into the virtual environment. He felt nothing at all for a while, only heard the clicks and taps for Rebecca working. Five minutes later, she said, "Okay, we are fine."

Desmond sat up again.

Elegantly poised, Ezio lounged on an unoccupied desk, watching the proceedings with raptor-like intensity. He had slipped both gauntlets back on, Desmond noticed, despite how uncomfortable they had to be in the heat.

Altaïr had joined them in the meantime. Some dampness still clung to his hair and skin, but Desmond preferred not to think about it.

"Lucy will join us soon," Altaïr said. He took his seat behind the computer and his laptop.

From this angle, Desmond could make out the data-feed from the Animus scrolling past it and the way Altaïr watched it made it quite clear it actually meant something to him.

"Right," Rebecca said, stretching the word like chewing gum. "I still don't know what the point of all this is." She looked at Desmond.

"The Animus was uploading stuff to my head," he said. "That's what you said."

Rebecca nodded. "But I still don't know why."

"There must be a plan behind all of this," Ezio said. He pointed with his chin at Altaïr. "Or why would _he _be still alive. Or I, for that matter. Why would they send that message to you, if not because there was a point to it all?"

"I believe I've tried to express something similar," Shaun said. "Whatever else that code fragment does, it is highly unlikely it was meant to do harm."

"You have no idea, folks. The programme that runs the Animus is the most advanced piece of technology any of us has ever seen. You know what binary is, yeah? All computers work on that premise."

Desmond pulled a face. "Even I know that," he said dryly.

"Could have fooled me," Shaun muttered, but Rebecca shushed them.

"The Animus uses complex numbers for the same purpose. Can you imagine how complicated that is? There is no one alive who could figure all that out."

"Leonardo would have," Ezio said quietly. "Given time."

Another reminder, there in his mind as well as in Ezio's and the loss suddenly stung.

Desmond sighed and settled back in his seat. He wasn't quite sure where his anxiety had gone to. Maybe he was still high on adrenaline from the sparring with Ezio, or maybe the inevitability of it all had made him snap finally. Who knew? Maybe he was going to start cackling manically next.

"There is such a thing as too much information," Desmond said. "I didn't need to know you had no damned idea about what you are doing there. Next time it comes up, please lie to me."

The metal stairs jingled and shivered under the light impact of Lucy's steps as she walked down to finally join them. Her hair was still wet, tied back from her face unceremoniously. It left a thin trail of wetness down the back of her shirt but she didn't seem to care. Her face was clean, scrubbed pale, making her look younger than she was. She forced a smile.

"Desmond," she said. "You don't have to do this."

"Of course I have to do this," Desmond said. He was staring at the ceiling now, rather than meeting her gaze. Ever since all of this mess had began, she had been his anchor. A less disillusioned man would have been prepared to accept her as his saviour, even. "It's already stuck in my head anyway. The eagle and the lion and all the cheap apocalyptic imagery they brought along. It's not going to go away anyway so I might as well find out what the punchline is."

There was no answer for a long minute. Desmond kept staring upward. He didn't feel like looking back at her, or like seeing the looks Lucy exchanged with the others.

There was a scrape of wood on concrete when she sat down. "With the precautions Rebecca installed, I think we can risk it," she said.

Normally, Desmond tried not to think too much about what the Animus did inside his head when he was pulled in. The room around him faded, the ceiling vanished and was replaced by the blue nothingness of the Animus screen.

"I'm setting up the buffer," Rebecca informed him.

The blue in front of Desmond shivered and changed until he was staring at a man, at himself, more precisely. Desmond moved and, a moment later, the simulacrum did the same, its outlines going blurry briefly.

"Can you not do that, please?" Rebecca asked.

"Do what?" he asked. He stamped with his foot and the Desmond in front of him did the same, then suddenly flickered uncertainly.

"Move," Rebecca clarified. "It eats most of the memory just to get the projection stable, never mind copy your movements.

"Ah, okay," Desmond said. Involuntarily he stiffened in an effort to hold still.

"Don't do that, either," Rebecca said.

"Or you'll get cramps out here in the real world," Shaun added.

"Can we get started?" Altaïr asked with a hint of impatience. Desmond almost laughed.

More clanking of keys, from two separate directions as far as Desmond could tell.

Everything was just like last time, but the eagle appeared facing the fake Desmond, watching him, rather than the real one.

"Something's wrong," Rebecca suddenly said.

"The Animus has detected your buffer," Altaïr said. "I expected this."

"I'm simulating Desmond _perfectly," _Rebecca shot back. "It shouldn't."

"Simulating a full human being is beyond our computing powers and you know that. It was a good try, but unfortunately nothing more than that."

Rebecca made a small growl, clicking and typing rapidly. The fake Desmond flickered and seemed to grow more solid, live-like, thought Desmond hadn't realised there had been something lacking before.

"It's not holding up," Lucy said slowly. "Rebecca, let it be."

There was a pause, Desmond felt the tension through the separating veil of the Animus.

"Desmond?" Rebecca asked. "You okay with it?"

Desmond grimaced again. "_Now _I get a say in what happens to my brain?" he asked. "A bit late in the game, I think. I don't care. Just do it."

He received no answer, but the fake Desmond disappeared. The eagle put its head to the side, spread its wings and flew forward until it sat in front of Desmond.

"I'm loading the code now."

Unlike last time, there was no transformation at all, no warning and - thankfully - less disorientation. The code just smashed into his face, writhed along his body and wrote itself on his bones.

"It's because the process had already started," Rebecca informed him. "Try to stay calm."

"Nothing easier," Desmond said sluggishly. He felt the words in their alien writing on his tongue and travelling down his throat. It wasn't painful, it didn't even feel threatening but it was a rather peculiar feeling.

"Okay, looks like the upload is done," Rebecca said.

"How do you feel?" Lucy asked. Desmond heard the enforced composure in her words.

"I don't know," he answered. "Is that all?"

"Wait," Altaïr said.

The writing snapped back out and for a second Desmond was convinced it ripped his flesh and skin to shards as it did. Carefully he flexed his muscles, moved his hands. Nothing bleeding, nothing scarred, but his skin - or rather the virtual representation of it - still tingled uncomfortably.

A line of writing hung in the air in front of him.

"You see this?" he asked.

"We do indeed," Shaun said.

"We'll pull you out," Lucy said and the Animus screen darkened.

It was always surprising how real everything seemed inside the Animus, only when coming back did Desmond realise how surreal it had been. The world was sharper, with depth and richer colour, with scent and sound.

Desmond sat up in his seat and stretched his arms carefully.

Lucy and Rebecca had grouped around Shaun and the array of screens in front of him. Two of them now showed the line of writing. Ezio still hung back, his attention still fixed on Desmond while Altaïr seemed to be still finished something at his own computer.

Desmond struggled to his feet. His limbs had gone cold and numb and he rubbed his hands together when he approached Shaun.

"So what have we got?"

"It does look an awful lot like ancient writing," Shaun said. "There is nothing in our databases even remotely similar to it."

"So you can't translate it?" Lucy asked.

"I," Shaun said, "can translate everything. Not, however, on such short notice."

A deep frown had spread itself on Desmond's face, looking over Shaun's shoulder. "What the hell? What are you talking about?"

Shaun glanced sideways at him as if he had just surpassed whatever low expectation he'd had. "Well..." Shaun began condescendingly.

"I don't mean that," Desmond snapped. "That's English. Can't you see that?"

Silence danced on an invisible, imagined precipice, completely perfect and right before falling.

Altaïr and Ezio drew together at Desmond's back. Solid and powerful, casting stark shadows that soothed Desmond with an odd, sudden sense of support. Whatever the difference between their tempers and convictions, regardless of whatever cold war they were still waging, here, in this place, they were a unity. And against that front, Lucy's worry, Rebecca's confusion and Shaun's mild annoyance over his own puzzlement simply faded into obscurity.

Then, breaking the silence with the same deftness of a dagger plunging home, Ezio said, "That's Italian."

"Arabic," Altaïr added softly. He read it out, foreign-familiar Arabic by Desmond's ear and Desmond translated, repeated the line in the way he saw it clear before him.

_"Those living of the white eagle."_

"That's what it says?" Lucy asked.

"That's _all _it says?" Shaun added and Rebecca nodded slowly.

"It makes sense, I guess. Like one of those 'Made in China' things."

"Why can I read it?" Desmond asked, still staring at the writing, a little afraid it would vanish with the moment if he dared to blink.

"I suppose that's what the upload into your brain was for. If it was an upload, or _just _one anyway. Some of the data output is a little unclear."

Desmond took a breath, put his head to the side and in enforced flippancy struck his thumb over his shoulder. "And them?"

"Probably backward-compatible or something."

Desmond narrowed his gaze. He still felt a little strange, a little off somehow. If he looked really really hard at the screen, trying to focus on the edge of his vision he thought he could just make out the alien script the writing really was. "So," he observed detachedly. "It didn't cook my brain."

"It didn't make the sorry state of your wits any worse," Shaun corrected. "As far as we know."

Desmond paid the snide tone no heed, if it was the only way for Shaun to show that he cared, far be it from Desmond to call him out on it.

Desmond allowed his shoulders to sag a little in relief, but it didn't last long.

A small red button flared up at the edge of the screen, than vanished again. Tension ran through them all, an invisible string that held them together being tucked suddenly.

"What...?" Desmond began.

"Someone is hacking the cameras," Shaun explained. He glanced over his shoulder at Altaïr. "Quincey betrayed us?"

The Assassin only nodded. "Of course."

Ezio linked arms with Desmond, pulling him around. "Let's get ourselves armed, rookie. The party won't wait for anybody."

* * *

_"Dum loquimur, fugerit invida aetas."_

_(While we speak, envious time will have already fled)_

_Odes, Horace_

* * *

**Author's Note: **As you may have noticed, I've hit on something of a writer's block with this. I apologise for the long wait and for any further delay the story might suffer.

I will partially blame it on Ubisoft's ludicrous copyright policy which has made it impossible for me to buy the PC version of AC 2 as I am incapable of supporting this type of bullshit.

But, yeah, the main problem is that I can't seem to write a proper sentence in less than three hours. Writing is _slow _at that speed and seriously painful.


	12. A Proud Look, A Lying Tongue

_A huge thanks for my dear friend Stella for beta-reading!_

* * *

**Chapter 12: A Proud Look, a Lying Tongue, and Hands that Shed Innocent Blood**

The intensive care ward of the hospital lay in silence, sterile air cool against the heat already boiling up against the white walls outside. The shift had changed, quick and efficient, barely disturbing the quiet.

The nurse hung up the phone, crinkled her nose a little, but walked around her desk and down the corridor to the electrical door at the ward entrance, pushed a button and watched it swing open on soundless hinges.

The group beyond might easily have escaped from someone's conspiracy theory. Dressed in dark suits and sunglasses, they carried themselves with a nearly palpable air of utter authority.

"Room 212," the nurse said. "He should be awake, but I have to ask you to be mindful. His injuries were substantial."

"Yes, I am aware of that," said the man at the front of the group. His voice sounded bored as if he had long since resigned himself to persistently encountering people less intelligent than himself. He gave the nurse a quick, business-like smile. "Mr. Vidic is one of my most valued employees. I will hardly risk losing him." He arched his eyebrows. "But thank you, we won't be needing you."

He strode past her, his people filing behind him. They looked like a united front, unstoppable and the nurse would have bet they carried weapons under those suits and were hardly strangers to using them. Only one of them, a woman with a laptop under her arm, followed inside while the others took position outside the door. The nurse suppressed a shiver and returned to her paperwork, doing her best to concentrate on it rather than the intruders in her ward.

Alan Rikkin was a tall man, athletic despite his age. Clean-shaven handsome face and very sharp, very piercing eyes under a full head of short salt-and-pepper hair.

He narrowed those eyes now, walking into the small room, focusing on the man lying there.

Vidic looked like a corpse, kept alive by the machines surrounding him which peeped and blinked in their own intervals in affirmation of his continued existence.

Rikkin picked up the clipboard from the foot of the bed, flipped through it quickly while his secretary picked a seat by the window and flipped her laptop open.

"A lot of broken bones, my poor man," Rikkin observed, there was real compassion there in his tone, soured by vague disdain. He lowered the clipboard, cocked his head in an almost playful way. "It won't be healing any time soon, I'm afraid."

Vidic attempted a derisive snort, but produced a pitiful gargle instead. "I'm not complaining."

Rikkin nodded slowly. "Of course, we take care of our own. But still," he began, than trailed off as if he was searching for words, even though this was hardly the man who ever found himself at a loss. "Some parts of your report, frankly, sounds a little addled. There were a lot of people on the board who would have disregarded it completely, but I convinced them to withhold judgment for the time being. So tell me again."

Vidic blinked slowly, a carefully choreographed movement and the effort of it writing itself across his worn features. "I am not stupid, Alan. I know what I saw. It's on the cameras anyway. You saw the footage."

"Yes, and the footage could be a tad cleaner. Besides, I didn't come here to watch the same old videos again. I want you to tell me. Everything."

Vidic didn't answer immediately, executed a handful more of his difficult blinking manoeuvres and then said, "The man who threw me off the building was Ezio Auditore, an ancestor of Miles from the fifteenth century." He paused again, concentrated on breathing for a moment. "There is a second man. We have him on camera outside the Assassin safe house in New York and the security cams of a private airfield in Mexico."

Rikkin nodded. "Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad. You will forgive the board if they find this hard to believe."

"I don't know about Altaïr, Alan, but I swear to you, I've never seen any man fight like this other one. I know what I saw, that was Ezio Auditore. But it makes no difference, because whoever he is, he _fights _like Auditore."

Deftly, Rikkin put the clipboard back and walked around the bed, pulled a chair close and sat down, long legs folding under him gracefully. "You believe it," he stated carefully. "You really believe the two most dangerous of all Assassins have managed to cheat death. Can the Apple do that?"

"It might," Vidic said. "The Apple never responded to us well enough to determine its true capacity. Altaïr seems to have had much better results and it was in the Auditores' possession for a long time." He paused, looked away and seemed to drift off somewhere.

After the entire debacle with Subject 16, Alan Rikkin's status with the board had suffered greatly. There had been talk - albeit not openly - that there might be something to gain by putting Rikkin himself in the Animus. If the prospect worried Rikkin, however, he wasn't showing it. Still, a chance to prove his worth to the board must be more than welcome.

"We have tracked them to a warehouse in Guatemala City," Rikkin said in the silence as it stretched between them. "We are moving in on them as we speak."

But there was more to this, Vidic heard it well enough. Rikkin wouldn't have moved so far so fast if he didn't have his own agendas and his own trumps to play.

"However, I'm thinking that maybe we'd be better served by finding out where they were heading precisely."

Vidic tried to nod, but his numb body failed to move. "If you want to hear my opinion," Vidic said.

Rikkin smiled faintly. He might have meant the expression to be encouraging, but it stalled at an unpleasant smirk. "I don't have to. I already know what you are going to say and it is justifiable to want them dead, in your position. But killing them just like that might be a tactical mistake."

"No worse than letting them live," Vidic croaked, surprised at his own sudden bitterness. "It's got to end somehow."

The smirk grew wider and a sparkle tinted his eyes like metal. "And there we are in utter agreement again. It's all ending. Soon."

Vidic's exhausted mind had no barriers anymore, no veil of training, no puffer of millennia of civilisation and Rikkin's voice and gaze struck a chord of unexpected, primal fear. For a moment, Vidic wondered whether the order really gave a damn about him anymore, now that he was useless to them as well as powerless.

A dull knock on the door broke the moment and Rikkin snapped his head back from Vidic, looked at the door and the man who struck his head in. The knight's face seemed to have gone pale from one moment to the other, stark contrast against the dark of the sunglasses.

"Mr. Rikkin," he said, hard-won composure tethering on the edge of control. "I just got a call from HQ."

"Well?" Rikkin asked, crossed his arms over his chest.

The knight hesitated, looked lost for words. "Nazca is moving," he then said. "It'll hit us in a matter of minutes."

Vidic nearly laughed, but his body wouldn't comply. Surprise tore Rikkin lose from his poise, arms falling down limply. The moment didn't last and he shot to his feet was half across the room before he turned back and trained his feral grin back at Vidic. "I was wrong. It's not ending soon," he said in a conversational tone that chilled to the bone. "It's ending _now."_

* * *

Desmond hurried after Ezio, up the stairs towards their arsenal. Behind him, Lucy, Shaun and Rebecca began hastily dissembling their equipment, short, quick phrases passing back and forth between them for coordination. The last thing Desmond saw before he followed Ezio into the small room was Altaïr scaling the wall, making for a narrow window in the roof.

"Catch!"

Desmond turned and caught a thrown gun, far less elegantly than the knife earlier, still distracted from the sudden urgency of movement around him. The damned eagle still lingered in his mind and he felt a little cross-eyed over the entire thing with the writing. He just hoped that really was all the Animus had done, because he really doubted his sanity was any more solid than glass and wouldn't handle more beatings well.

"We never got to guns," Desmond said, shifting the weapon.

Ezio glanced over his shoulder, rifling through the cupboard for ammo. "There was a woman, once. Georgia Moore. Best shot I ever met."

Memory smashed into Desmond's head, completely unbidden and he felt his sanity go down. He stood in a stable somewhere, dry, dusty road behind him and and pale spring sun lighting the interior. The image shifted and skittered before it focused again. A woman's laugh somewhere and then he saw her head bob up behind a haystack with a streak of flame-coloured hair. She dipped down again immediately and a second voice - this one distinctively male and rather familiar - gave an answering laugh. _Shameless woman, _someone thought in Desmond's head, completely without malice and brimming with want.

Desmond swayed, could feel himself falling out there in the present, but couldn't do shit to prevent it.

Ezio's hands closed on his shoulders, pushed him back against the doorway for support.

"I didn't mean to do _that," _Ezio said. "I'm sorry, rookie. You okay?"

Desmond took a breath, pushing away carefully as Ezio gave him the room. "Right. Georgia Moore was an ancestor of mine." He glared forcelessly at Ezio. "And the rest? You my ancestor twice or something?"

Ezio looked puzzled for a moment, than a dirty little smile appeared. "No," he said, stretching the word. "But I think I nearly killed her fiancé, I believe. And don't tell Altaïr. He doesn't need to know I meddled with the family line any more than I should."

"Whatever," Desmond said defeatedly. He stared down at the gun in his hand, vaguely grateful the memory hadn't thrown him into Georgia's head for that particular scene. He didn't need this getting weirder than it already was.

His skin tingled under the weight of the gun. It wasn't familiarity, not the way it had been with the knife, or even fighting Altaïr bare-handed and it was nowhere near as concise as the hidden blade that always felt like an additional limb.

"How bad can it be?" he asked, though of no one in particular. "Just point and pull the trigger, right?"

Ezio grinned and nodded encouragingly. "That's the gist of it."

Ezio shrugged himself into a shoulder holster and picked up a shotgun, hoisting it casually over a shoulder. "Guns mean you can kill your enemies at a distance," he said. "We have plenty of cover outside the warehouse, use it where possible and keep moving. We aren't fighting this battle here, we are only retreating."

From below, Shaun's voice echoed with an unaccustomed pitch, above and beyond the normal agitation. "Ezio! Desmond! Down here! _Now!"_

Rushing down, the hasty work of a moment before had suddenly been halted with both Lucy and Rebecca coming to stand behind Shaun at his computer.

Lucy looked up at them, first at Ezio than she fixed on Desmond.

Frowning, Desmond asked, "What's wrong?"

"The Nazca Plate has just began moving," Shaun explained, accent crisp in the air.

"Nazca?" Desmond repeated. "Like the lines?"

"Like the tectonic plate, moron," Shaun sneered. "It sits under the Pacific Ocean alongside South America."

Desmond felt a growl climb up his throat, but decided it wasn't the time for it. One of them had to be the reasonable one, besides Ezio at his side looked nearly as puzzled as himself and the prestigious company made him feel slightly better.

"I'm sorry, Desmond," Lucy said. "I should have explained it to you earlier, but there is no time now. All you need to know now is that an earthquake is going to hit us in a few minutes."

"So the Templars are the least of our problems, I get it," Desmond concluded. He had never been in an earthquake before, didn't quite know what to expect of it, but he had got used to the ground being less reliable than it should, at least metaphorically.

"I'll get Altaïr," Ezio said and was gone from Desmond's side as if he had been a hallucination all along, vanished swiftly and soundlessly, scaling the walls with effortless grace.

On the roof, Altaïr had found himself a vantage point of a chimney, crouching like the bird-of-prey he was named for.

"Change in priorities," Ezio said, sauntering forward to lean against the brick.

"Why?" Altaïr asked without looking down at the other Assassin.

"Does 'Nazca Plate' mean anything to you?"

Altaïr's head snapped around to stare at Ezio for a moment. Than he jumped from the chimney, landed smoothly and straightened, walking a few steps. He slipped his cellphone from his pockets and dialled. It took a long time, precious seconds dripping away, but neither Assassin betrayed any agitation.

"Finally," Altaïr drawled into the phone. "And don't fake surprise, I don't like it. - We need to be picked up. - The Templars? Not a problem. - It doesn't matter, get here, right now, before I decide I'm tired of games you've played for two decades. - Precisely."

He snapped the phone closed and turned around.

"Tell everyone to come to the roof," Altaïr said. "Quincey will get us with a helicopter."

And that was when the earth became quicksand.

* * *

The earth below Guatemala lurched, billowing in a great wave that travelled across the city and into the countryside. Tremor after tremor wrecked the city, skyscrapers swaying like grass in the storm, cracks travelling upwards on the walls of buildings, splitting their once so solid facades. Water pipes burst under the strain and power cords snapped like cut wire. Concrete piled up in great heaps. From one moment to the next, the sparkling city was thrust into chaos. Fires broke out and spread, travelling in the wind, obscuring the catastrophe with veils of thick smoke in grey and unyielding black that darkened the horizon.

Sirens howled, high and sharp against the artificial night.

It didn't stop there. The entire coastline was hit, all along the South American continent the same disaster rolled across the land, followed by mounting waves from the ocean that sped across the Pacific to swallow what land they found.

It lasted only a few minutes, a handful of short, tiny seconds was enough to lay to waste half a continent. Tendrils of it reached northward, shaking the US in its core and making the ground shudder all the way to Canada.

But even when the quake subsided, the land found no peace. The ground kept shivering, as if it had caught an illness, toiling in its bed, helplessly struggling as it tried to wait it out.

Desmond watched it like a film from the window of the helicopter. He saw the fires break out and the traffic get stunted on its tracks as the helicopter gained height and speed. They had to get away quickly, silently, before authorities below had time to organise and other helicopters might cross their path. The rotor drummed relentlessly in his ears, despite the headphones, beating its way until he felt his bones rattling in its rhythm.

He cleared his throat, shifted uncomfortably in his seat and wondered how many people had actually died in those few minutes down there below them. He came up with no number at all, he couldn't imagine and apparently his ancestry hadn't been big on sympathy for others' blight or some knowledge would have invaded his tired mind at the opportunity.

Lucy began to speak, her voice distorted through the headphones. She was sitting right across from Desmond, but she sounded distant, a world away, lodged in some completely different reality.

"Like Shaun has said, the Nazca Plate sits between the Pacific Plate and the South American one. It's a common enough earthquake fault line as it is, but pressure has been building for the last few years, more than at any other time in recorded history. We ran the data through our most powerful systems - through Abstergo's most powerful systems and the result has always been the same, no matter what reasonable assumption we made to the parameters. This is the beginning, this will cause a global earthquake storm which in turn will trigger a reversal of the earth's magnetic field."

She paused. Desmond tore his gaze away from the window to look at her, she was pale, looked tired and thin in the suddenly ashen light.

"I read about that," Desmond said. He expected some snide remark or other from Shaun, but for once the historian seemed as shell-shocked as the rest of them. "It's happened in the past and lots of times. It doesn't seem so dangerous."

"Apparently, most of these reversals passed without affecting the environment negatively, but sometimes, during the shift, the geomagnetic field lessens considerably and exposes the planet to solar winds."

"We'll get fried," Desmond said. "How long will it take?"

Lucy looked down at her hands, entwined tightly in her lap. "Our results varied between fifty and a hundred and twenty years until the field is again strong enough to protect us."

Desmond would readily admit he lacked the professional knowledge to imagine what that really meant, to them, to the Templars and to the rest of the world. He tried to picture it and failed, all he found was the fresh, searing memory of the endless minutes on the warehouse roof before the helicopter arrived. The way it had felt when the last solid fact of life - the ground under his feet - had began to betray him, the first gentle shock that simply kept mounting until it felt as if everything around him was about to disintegrate. He remembered the way the quiet quarter around them had suddenly come to flickering life, fires and smoke springing up out of nowhere.

Then the helicopter had come, thrumming sound breaking through the other, alien noises all around. "Can we trust that guy?" Rebecca had asked, frowning.

Altaïr now sat beside Quincey, his back to the others and his expression completely hidden from view. No doubt Altaïr knew Quincey well enough. He had predicted the other's betrayal, but still Quincey had come as called and only a fool would try to sell out Altaïr now.

The sudden memory of Georgia still hammered at the back his head, momentarily superseded by the large concerns rising all around them. He would have to deal with that, though, but some other time. Desmond glanced at Ezio as if looking for some sort of guideline to how he was supposed to feel.

Ezio didn't look back, his gaze was fixed at the view outside the window as Desmond's had been, but the Assassin seemed almost bored by it. Face a blank, cool mask drawn across his normally so expressive features.

Lucy spoke again. Desmond didn't know how long the silence had lasted between them. She said, "The way we understand it, a similar catastrophe has already happened at least once before. It killed Those Who Came Before, but we think they may have found a way to counteract this. They weren't fast enough to save themselves. Still, the Pieces of Eden show how far developed their technology was and how well it preserved over the ages."

"That's the goose-chase, then?" Desmond asked.

Lucy nodded, than looked at Altaïr for a moment. She said, "We know almost nothing about where that device might be located, but it's reasonable enough to expect it to be one of the Vaults, or maybe all of them."

"The Templars control most of them, don't they?" Desmond asked. "They got the map from me, the one from Altaïr's memories."

For the first time, a short smile lit Lucy's face. "The Templars found many Vaults, most were destroyed and some... weren't quite where they were supposed to be. Continental drift might not be fast, but it had a long time to work."

Altaïr shifted in his seat, looked back at them over his shoulder. "There is an ancient Mayan city, Sianahk'ab. It's not a Vault location and the Apple never displayed it. The Templars couldn't know about it, because I didn't know until..." The hesitation was short, but cut. A siren somehow managed to penetrate the noise of the helicopter as it veered to the side, flew a curve and made for the horizon.

"Until I reopened the Apple," Altaïr finished with less conviction than normal.

_Until you reopened the Apple, _Desmond added in his mind,_to see if it could make you immortal._

"No one knows where Sianahk'ab is supposed to have been," Shaun pointed out. "Even it's existence is disputed. We might just as easily be looking for Atlantis."

"I was there," Altaïr said.

"Atlantis?" Desmond heard himself ask tiredly. "Met with a Martian for tea while you were at it?"

"It's a ruin," Altaïr said as if Desmond had never opened his mouth. "Most of it is completely overgrown and destroyed. A few of the walls remain and there are indications of extensive underground structures."

"So what went wrong?" Desmond asked. The others looked at him as if he had, somehow, said something particularly shocking while in truth the conclusion wasn't hard to make. Altaïr would never have gone to all this trouble if it hadn't been necessary. It had been about that Temple all along, ever since that prophecy under the Vatican. This was what Minerva had wanted them to find and Altaïr had known about it all along.

"I found nothing there," Altaïr said. "Just old stone."

"What makes you think it'll be different this time?" Shaun asked but it was Desmond who replied. "I'm here. Minerva spoke to me, however the fuck she knew about me at all. She told me to find it. Remember when Borgia tried to enter the Vault in Rome? It didn't work for him, either. It was waiting for Ezio."

The Assassin stirred slightly at his name, but his expression didn't change and he said nothing.

"So maybe this one is waiting for me," Desmond concluded. He wasn't quite sure where the certainty came from, least of all why Those Who Came Before would place their faith in him when men like Altaïr or Ezio could be had. Maybe they had found insanity before extinction, or maybe it made no difference anymore.

* * *

Desmond found himself standing in a damp street. He felt displaced for a moment, confused. He had been elsewhere just a moment before. Elsewhere and... He turned on his heels, once, taking in his surroundings. The town around him looked vaguely like the set of an Old West movie, though everything was off a little, tiny details that didn't match with his expectation. Dirt clung to his boots and the sun was weak, hung low on the horizon, spending little warmth and pale light.

He knew he was dreaming, he had been to this place often enough, but his surroundings seemed ill-defined, lacking the concise edges of memories brought up by the Animus. He turned back and the world changed, skipped parts, minutes or hours, Desmond could not tell. He leaned against the side of the empty stall.

"I heard you were back," Desmond's ancestor said and Desmond was hard-pressed to interpret what he was thinking. However, it wasn't surprise or even anger, not yet.

The woman Desmond recognised as Georgia looked over her shoulder and smirked as she unhurriedly removed her hand from Ezio's pants.

"My reputation precedes me," she said, chuckling and sat back, against the wall, legs stretched out comfortably in front of her. Desmond's ancestor tracked his gaze over Ezio, once, with well-faked disinterest before he focused on the woman. "The Sheriff's looking for you. Some news on that Delaware guy you were hunting."

Georgia's face lit up brightly, mischievous sparkling like unholy fires. She rushed to her feet in one smooth movement, but stopped herself. "Can I trust you boys?" she asked. Looked at Desmond - his name, Desmond thought desperately, he needed his name. It was harder to keep himself apart without a name. He said, "Oh, you know, I won't break your toys."

Ezio, still sprawled in the hay, laughed quietly to himself and a very short spike of anger shot up in Desmond's throat, it was all he could do to keep it from his eyes, where Georgia would have seen and acted on it.

_Joseph. _The name came like a blessing, out of nowhere, split Desmond apart and made him fade from the memory for no more than a second. He heard the beat of the helicopter, but then it was gone again, the tangles of his own, unreliable mind not leaving him.

Ezio had got up, pulling his shirt on, but making no effort to button it. He was taller than Joseph, broader although with the same curious tanned skin. Around these parts, it usually meant Mexican, although Joseph was no such thing. At least, Joseph thought distantly, she didn't change her type.

It wasn't the first time. Georgia had wrapped her hands firmly around every little piece of freedom the already legendary west was willing to offer her, unheeding of what limitations society were putting on her gender. She was fast and ruthless when it came to defending it, building the reputation that, while, yes, she was acting against nature, it would be too much trouble to teach her otherwise. Joseph had never minded. Never minded that she had other men when she wanted, because they never mattered and he knew she had chosen him, above all the others and would always come back to him.

This one, though, this one spelt danger on other fronts, all over. His hunter's gait and handsome face and easy, confident attitude. He walked past and Joseph thought he would let it go there and then, worry, keep an eye on him, until he was gone from their life, but then something snapped - Desmond could almost feel it, jerked in his seat with the backlash - and Joseph jumped. Tore the pistol from his hip and pressed it hard against the back of Ezio's head. The click of the safety as it came off, echoed, unrelenting, down the centuries.

Desmond's eyes snapped open and he stared uncomprehending at the edge of the window, where his head rested. He sat up straight, trying to shake the memory. Anger lingered in his mind like an aftertaste. It wasn't his own, Desmond knew, but it was momentarily difficult to figure out what that meant.

He cleared his throat, tried to avoid Ezio and looked at Lucy instead. "How long will we be stuck in here?" he asked. "I could use, you know, a bathroom or something."

"You and me both," Rebecca said with some feeling.

"Not much longer," Ezio said. "Altaïr isn't the only one with contacts. I've got someone to pick us up and take us further."

An hour later, Quincey sat them down at the side of a deserted, dusty road. Everything was quiet here, belying the monumental disaster that had struck the continent all along its coast. What aid was being organised, it hadn't left its mark on this small spot of land.

A small car and a black van stood parked by the road and someone was waiting for them, leaned against the hood, straw-hat pushed back from sun-tanned face.

While the others were climbing from the helicopter, stiff-limbed after being cramped into the small space for so long.

Altaïr pulled the headset off and turned to Quincey.

"I won't be seeing you again," Altaïr said, voice so low it barely carried, even though the rotors had slowed to a lazy swirl above that stirred the air but made barely any sound.

Quincey spread his hands out. "No hard feelings, yeah? I mean, those Templars are a nasty bunch, I wouldn't have stood up to them anyway."

Altaïr leaned forward, bringing his face close to Quincey, who sat frozen in his seat and didn't even dare to flinch.

"No hard feelings," Altaïr agreed lowly. But then, he didn't actually need those for a reason to kill. "But don't cross paths with me again. And one word to the Templars - or anyone - about this, and I'll come find you."

"Y-yes," Quincey squeaked, seeming to shrink in his seat. "I'm... um, out of here anyway. Natural disasters are bad for business. Can't make deals with earthquakes, isn't it?"

Altaïr said nothing, slipped from his seat and outside. He didn't even bother to look back as he strode to join the others. Quincey looked after him, face blanched to near translucence. Then he focused with some difficulty on the controls in front of him, bringing the helicopter back up into the air.

The woman from the van pushed herself away from the seat when they approached. Long grey hair was pulled tight away from her weathered face split into a white-teethed grin and dark eyes bright as she spread her arms out to embrace Ezio.

"_Bella_ Annabelle!" Ezio announced, hugging her. "It's been too long."

She laughed and Desmond thought he heard a trace of bitterness there. She said, "Only for me, by the looks of you."

Ezio didn't release her, kept his arm wrapped around her shoulder as he turned them to face the others. "The good ones only get better with age, _bella. _But I'm afraid there isn't time now. Thank you for helping us so quickly."

"Oh, you know how it is," Annabelle said. "I'd give you my heart in a blueberry pie and a knife to cut it with." The tone was flippant enough, but the underlying emotion cut deep, Desmond almost writhed with it. His mind had been ripped open for it, now all he could do was stop it from bleeding.

"The van's tank is full and I bought some provisions and water. Wasn't easy in the chaos. If it runs out, finding replacements might be difficult."

"We'll manage," Ezio said, squeezed her shoulder. "I'm in your debt again."

She smiled and said nothing, kept her body rigid and motionless against his until Ezio let her go to climb into the van with the others.

She stood at the side of the road and watched drive away. Stood, in fact, much longer than made any sense at all. Eventually, she sighed and shaking her head slowly walked back to her car. Her steps were slow, reluctant, with the inevitability of a part of her life coming to an end.

* * *

The satellite connection was bad, scattering streaks across the image and chopping the sound. Alan Rikkin sat with the laptop on his knees, aware of the bad angle for a video connection, but he found he barely cared.

The hospital was one of the most stable buildings in the city and had stood up amazingly well against the earthquake as it rolled in from the sea. The earth still shook now and then, but nothing that felt like any sort of threat. He didn't like being stuck here for much longer, but it was wiser to let everything calm down before they moved. In the current chaos no amount of influence or power would buy him quick passage anyway.

"The Assassins got away," he told the board over the jittery connection. "It was impossible to follow them in the earthquake, but that won't be a problem. I know where they are going and we can get there first, I'm sure of it."

"Take what resources you must, Sir Alan," he was told. "We expect a report of success soon. This entire operation has been a string of failures since the beginning and we won't let it continue."

Rikkin's face set in a grim smile. Of course his head would roll if this failed, he had known that for a while, but if there was anything to this at all, his head was the least of their problems.

The words Ezio had said to Vidic before throwing him off the building wouldn't quite leave him alone. If so much was at stake, maybe just eradicating the Assassins wasn't the way to go, not now anyway. He kept that line of thought wisely to himself. The board disliked thinking outside the black-and-white spectrum and he was hardly going to teach them otherwise.

"Don't worry," Rikkin said. "Besides, maybe you should have given me authority over this far sooner, maybe then we wouldn't be here now."

There was a pause as they processed the nearly direct attack.

"After Subject Sixteen was such a failure..."

"My _son _was not a failure," Rikkin hissed, ancient anger flaring up before he could quench it. He didn't really mind the sacrifice itself, but the pointless waste in how it had been done still grated. "You were idiots over it and that's what caused everything else. That's what killed him. I'll clean up your mess, don't worry, and I expect to be rewarded for it once I'm done."

"Sir Alan, mind your tone."

There it was again, that sense of being looked down on and he had never understood what the cause for that might be. Rikkin's family had been part of the Templar order for a very long time. They had always been part of all this and spawned some prestigious leaders along the way. And still, with records lost over time, there had always been some kind of stigma placed on his family. As if they didn't quite belong and couldn't quite be trusted.

His son had volunteered for the Animus project, curious as Rikkin himself had been, about the parts of their family's past they no longer possessed. How could he possibly have known what would be revealed? How could he have expected to find Altaïr Ibn Al'Ahad there, in the beginning of his family line? The mysterious one, the eagle, the man in white, who had single-handedly dealt more damage to the entire order than entire armies could ever have? This was the stigma, that had always marked them out. The order had used them, this potential in their blood but always took care that the leading ranks remained closed.

He could not have saved his son after that, not when so much could be gleaned from him, ripped from his mind until nothing remained of who he had once been.

"I _won't _mind my tone," Rikkin said, calm again, anger tightly controlled. "You have no one else to send, we both know it. Vidic was a mistake from the beginning anyway. He's a scientist, he knows nothing about organising a combat operation. What did you think would happen if you pitched him against fully trained Assassins? No, it's my rules from here. And when I'm done, I'll take my place on the board, where I should have been all along."

Another pause, shorter this time, the indignant rage barely lessened through the bad connection. "You are overreaching yourself. There are dozens of knights more than capable of filling your position."

Rikkin leaned forward, snarl still on his lips. "Don't insult my intelligence or your own. There is no one else."

He gave them no time to phrase another reprimand. He didn't want to have to push them too far, not this early on, not before he didn't have his knife at their throat.

He snapped the laptop closed.

* * *

_"A Proud Look, a Lying Tongue, and Hands that Shed Innocent Blood"_  
_- Proverbs 6:17, King James Version_

_"I'd give you my heart in a blueberry pie and a knife to cut it with."_  
_- The Disorderly Knights by Dorothy Dunnett_

_'Georgia Moore' named after Ann Sheridan's character in Silver River_

* * *

**Author's Note: **I realise that the entire Sixteen-Rikkin angle counters canon completely. It's making me itchy, but I didn't find a better way to integrate it and I need a villain I can write (you may have noticed my Vidic is a little... bland). Also, when Alan says that "there is no one else" to send, it's a deliberate echo of what Altaïr tells to Al'Mualim in the game.

I'm also completely winging the science in this one.


	13. Nephilim

_Edit: Beta by my dear friend Stella who also helped with the Spanish._

* * *

**Author's Note:** Bet you didn't expect another one!

So I _may_ have been desperate enough to install Brotherhood. And I _may_ have liked it more than I thought I would. And I _may_ have watched the Revelations trailer (the song also may play on repeat all the time). That being said, most of this chapter was actually already finished, so I didn't really have a big moment of inspiration. I wish I'd thought of sending them to Masyaf instead of Guatemala, though. That'd have been brilliant. Ah well...

I strongly advise caution. Don't get your hopes up.

**Also Note:** Above the Serpentine was began around the time of AC II's release. At this point, it is not possible to incoorporate elements of Brotherhood well enough to make it seemless, not without going back and rewriting large portions of it. I will put in what I can from Brotherhood, but please be aware that this is now officially an AU story (it probably always was, but I run away screaming from AUs, too, so I didn't think I should advertise it as such).

* * *

**Chapter 13: Nephilim**

_"... the quake that hit short after noon has caused devastation in many South American countries to the point where experts at the moment are incapable to estimate the number of victims with any sort of accuracy. Coastal regions of Colombia, Ecuador, Peru and Chile all were ruined within minutes. We have had reports of entire cities falling down upon themselves, leaving clouds of dust visible from space."_ The impersonal voice on the radio wavered with a reception, but otherwise there was no inflection at all while the landscape outside the window slowly changed.

"Requiescant in pace," Ezio said quietly, velveteen voiced.

_"Also suffering extensive damage were coastal regions from Panama to Guatemala, but tremors could be felt as far north as the US."_

Desmond glanced at the sun, gauging their direction and surmised that they were heading away from the quake zones, for whatever good that did them.

_"A tsunami caused by the quake has crossed the Pacific, its worst damage done in Japan and Papua New Guinea."_

Sometimes, Desmond thought the earth trembled a little under them but he wasn't sure he could tell the difference from a mere bump in the bad road.

_"Meanwhile, experts the world over are issuing quake warning for many additional regions." _

And now the voice faltered, just slightly. _"The tectonic plates underneath South and North America as well as the Atlantic are moving. Therefore, earthquakes might strike all regions, from East Asia to Africa within the next few days."_

The air grew warmer as they went, damp, leaving a thin sheen of sweat along Desmond's skin. Distractedly, still listening to the radio without really comprehending, he dragged the shirt from him and punched it in a corner of his seat.

"What happened to your arm?" Rebecca asked and Desmond almost flinched. Her voice was too close suddenly, after listening to the distant, whispering voices of memories for so long, after losing himself in the clinical accounts of the earthquake on the radio.

Desmond looked at her, unconsciously hugging his arm closer in a feeble and pointless attempt to hide it. Noticing it, he lifted the arm in front of him instead, looked at the scratches for a long moment.

"I had a dream," he said. "The eagle sat on my arm." A strange, wry smile came into his face, but he didn't really notice.

Rebecca's face froze and he saw Lucy exchange a quick, meaningful look with Shaun.

"That's how it starts?" Desmond asked. "How Sixteen started snapping? First hurting himself than hurting others?"

Lucy's voice was soft, too much so perhaps, to be telling the whole truth. "Sixteen didn't notice it happening. He didn't question, he just suffered. Besides, you are hardly going back into the Animus, so the effects might begin to wear off."

Desmond shook his head slowly but said nothing. There were no words for the certainty he felt about that. It had gone on for too long, the floodgates in his minds were already open and he didn't know what kept the memories from breaking through him like that damn tsunami. He had no idea whether he would feel the moment when he truly snapped or whether he would simply lose himself in other people's lives through the centuries until there was nothing really left of who he once had been.

"I'll hold on," Desmond finally said with another mirthless smile. "The end of the world, right? Doesn't sound like it's that far off."

"We are doing this so that doesn't happen," Lucy pointed out.

Desmond settled back in his seat. His knees still felt like jelly, the adrenaline slowly dying in his system. "You trying to convince me? Or just yourself?"

"Desmond, I never lied to you."

Desmond shifted his eyebrows upwards. "I know that," he said lightly, sudden venom there and he didn't know whose it was. "But that doesn't fucking help me."

Abruptly, the light changed when the road dipped down into a forest. Just like that, it seemed, they had entered another world. The air became heavier, pressed down on them despite the air condition that should keep it at bay.

Ezio moved, just slightly, looked back over his shoulder from where he rode shotgun with Altaïr. The Assassin's face was serious for once, but the weight of his ancient eyes helped to balance and sooth Desmond's mind for a little.

Ezio said, "You are tougher than that, rookie."

The loss washed through Desmond's mind briefly, standing with Ezio in the crowd in Florence all those years ago and tasting betrayal and desperation on his tongue, probably fresher in his memory than in Ezio's own.

Desmond took a breath. "What happened to my parents?" he asked, moving his gaze back to Lucy and then to Shaun.

The historian hesitated, pushed his glasses up on his nose before he spoke. "We've lost contact with all other Assassin cells, but that doesn't necessarily mean they are all gone. Each cell operates on its own, especially in a crisis like this."

A slow smile grew on Ezio's face, past the sombre facade. He said, "Your parents are in Marseille with the other members of their compound. I can't guarantee their safety, since I'm in the Guatemalan outback right now, but they should be fine. The Templars have larger concerns."

Desmond opened his mouth, but for a moment no words came out. He couldn't identify his emotions, didn't really know what he felt about the thought that maybe, just maybe he would get a chance to talk to them. Finally he said a little lamely, "Thank you."

Ezio merely shrugged and turned back. "Well, I'm a family man."

Sunset crept through the window, warm and golden until it bled away in velveteen red, then purple and into blue.

They drove through the night, taking turns at the wheel. Silence weighed in the car all the while, no one felt like talking. Shaun and Rebecca huddled together for a while, going over the files they had hastily saved before being picked up from the warehouse, but their muttering voices weren't enough to disturb. Everyone slept, curled into a semblance of a comfortable position only Desmond kept his eyes open. It was pointless, of course, he couldn't stay awake for the next few days or weeks, but right now he simply didn't feel up to facing whatever lurked in his dreams. The scratches on his arms had started itching again and he kept rubbing over them absent-mindedly, wondering what he'd do if he found he got them bleeding again.

Sixteen had painted the rooms with blood. His own and Leila's after he had hacked the Animus with his mind alone. Had he felt himself slipping? Lucy had said no, but somehow Desmond doubted it. He, Desmond, stood at the beginning of this road and he could see the path quite clearly, could feel himself dragged forward despite himself. He could see the ragged edges rushing up to meet him, but there didn't seem much he could do.

"Tell me about where we are going," Desmond said, watching Altaïr's profile. "And then tell me we are going to win this one."

"A small town, Tassamlé. We need to stock up on equipment before we can risk the jungle. Sianahk'ab is only a few days from Tassamlé, but nature is hostile."

Altaïr fell silent. The world seemed shrunk to the small part of road lit by the car's lights, reality condensed into that small circle of cool brightness and life narrowed down to the insects that sometimes hit the windshield.

Desmond kept looking at Altaïr, the sharp contrast of his distantly lit face and the composed expression there. Desmond could read a certain tension in him, in the set of his shoulders perhaps, or maybe simply because his instincts - or another man's memories - told him as much.

After what felt like an eternity, Altaïr said, "I don't know whether we'll win this one. Whether there is ever going to be victory or salvation, for any of us, or the world."

"If you don't believe, why are you here?"

The corners of Altaïr's mouth twitched. "Am I?" he asked bemusedly. "The Apple creates illusions, Desmond, it controls men's minds and stores information. It cannot give eternal youth or immortality. At the end of his life, _Altaïr_ had learned nothing at all. Still arrogant, still too proud, he approached the Apple with all the hunger that nearly destroyed him years before. And the Apple always followed his orders, even then. Altaïr died of his greed. I am merely a shadow who thinks he is real."

The world was shaking again, Desmond thought, a trembling coming up from the ground to shake his bones until they cracked. "You don't know that," he said but he couldn't even hear himself speak, so quietly it was. The breathing of the others alone would be loud enough to swallow the words, it didn't need the humming of the engine at all.

"I don't know that," Altaïr conceded softly. "But I've had a long time to ponder these things."

Tiredness washed over Desmond. He should have slept, taken his chances and never asked Altaïr for what he didn't want to hear.

Altaïr said, "And still nothing is true. It doesn't matter if I'm real or just a projection of Altaïr's intentions. He needed to be here."

The night wore on, deeper still. Rebecca's face was pale, drawn gaunt by the reflection of the laptop screen in front of her. She chewed on her lower lip in concentration and everytime a bump in the road or one of the slight aftershocks, her brows furrowed a little harder. Her wound was still fresh, would hurt with every jolt.

It occurred to Desmond that it wasn't just his life going down the drain. They were all dying and it was no longer an abstract concept, no longer distant. The world was approaching the edge and all and everyone was going to burn. It was difficult to keep things in perspective when he could barely remember who he was anymore, when thinking of anyone _but _himself threatened to make him forget who that self even was. It was the ground, he thought, the fact that the very ground had began to betray them that he could no longer afford to think like that. He could picture it easily enough, everything around them simply dissolving, rock and stone and earth falling apart and back to dust, sprinkled in all directions before even the wind died. If he was quiet enough, if he could quench his fear for long enough to listen to himself, he thought he could hear it, see and feel it, how everything had started such a long time ago. He could sense all the lives lost in this struggle, giving it their best just so he could be here now, only to see as it all fell. Maybe they were there, in this way, standing with him, looking through his eyes like he had through theirs. And suddenly it didn't seem to be quite as terrible to have them there, to share his mind. They had bled and died for this, they had believed and sacrificed and fought with all their might, all the while with their lives bleeding out into the future.

He glanced at Altaïr, seeing him sleep for what must have been the first time since that impossible encounter. Relaxed and slipped down in the passenger seat, dark hair tousled against the headrest.

Desmond took a breath, pulled his gaze away from Altaïr to look out the window, just in time to be blinded momentarily by the headlight of a car passing them by.

"I think I have something," Rebecca said, looking up. "Not sure _what _it is, though."

From the driver's seat, Lucy asked, "Should we stop? Can we afford it?"

Altaïr stirred, perhaps never entirely asleep in the first place, pulled himself upright. It no longer bothered Desmond, this uncanniness of his, or the surreality of it all.

Altaïr shook his head, climbed from the passenger seat into the back of the van. "Keep going, we can always stop later."

Desmond drew forward too, jostling Shaun awake and forcing Ezio to take his legs down from where they'd been hooked against the open window.

"So," said Rebecca. "I took another look at that eagle and lion part of the code, trying to trace it, right? I _think _we might have misjudged it. You see, because it's part of the data we recorded, I'd assumed it was like the other memories, but it could, theoretically, be closer to.. maybe a dream. Like it's more symbolic than it's literal. I mean, if those aren't memories, but more like… impressions, or ideas, or … I don't know. Also, there is that interdependency with the Animus programme code, too."

"What you are saying is this," Ezio said, stretching his arms out before he settled forward. "It's more than we know."

Rebecca nodded.

"What else is new, then?" Desmond asked. "I always suspected you were just winging it, anyway."

Rebecca seemed unperturbed. She even grinned for a moment, a tired, but honest expression, briefly illuminated by another oncoming headlight.

"There is something else," she said. "I took the lion apart. The eagle is an obvious reference to the Assassins, but the lion, I wasn't so sure, so I thought maybe looking a little closer would reveal something."

She pushed the laptop forward, to the edge of her knees so the others could get a better view of the screen. "It contains data. In fact, it's _made up _of little data packages. They seem to have been recorded parallel to when we recorded Altaïr's and Ezio's memories through Desmond."

"You'd imagine that would have shown up at some point," Shaun remarked dryly.

"It did," Rebecca said. "But because the memories are often jumbled we use a filtering matrix, so stuff remains coherent. This was filtered out, but I guess that parts of the Animus programme which I thought were dormant caused this to happen."

"So these are more memories?" Desmond asked.

"Yes," Rebecca nodded. "I'm afraid most is really just junk data, but I could reconstruct a few bits."

"I'm stopping," Lucy declared and pulled the van off the side of the road before she climbed to the back.

"Showtime," Rebecca announced. "But sorry about the quality."

The quality was bad, images and flashes superimposed over each other, as if unwilling to reveal their secrets. After a few moments it cleared, just barely, the images synching into a garden scenery, looming mountains in the background.

"That's Masyaf!" Desmond exclaimed, a quick burst of pain crossing his chest. Feeling homesick for a place he had never even been to, much less ever left at all. From outside the Animus, with all the interfaces missing, the perspective was odd. They were looking through someone's eyes, the view shifting, walking towards the outer balustrade. Where a white-clothed Assassin lounged, head turned away, watching the horizon and the setting sun.

_"Are you sure you want me to stay?" _A woman's voice, English, but with an odd accent Desmond failed to place. It sounds familiar, still. Desmond didn't think there was any translation involved.

_The Assassin turns his head. Altaïr's face, young - a millennium younger than now - and he smirks a little. The relentless steel of his golden eyes is unexpectedly warm. _

_The woman snorts, unimpressed. "Why?" she asks. "When you have an entire harem of pliant girls so willing to kneel and kiss your feet?"_

_"They don't interest me."_

_The woman laughs, but if it is a challenge, it is not as scathing as it could have been. She says, "The novices, then? Such gorgeous young bodies in so much awe before you."_

_"They don't interest me, either."_

_Altaïr slips off the balustrade and stands relaxed, expression amused and open. He says…_

"It's one of Maria's memories," Altaïr said, delicately reaching past Rebecca to cancel the video. Desmond alone heard the faint strain in his voice. "She didn't want to stay in Masyaf at first."

There was a brief silence, then Shaun cleared his throat. "Do we have any idea why the Animus would record that?"

"Not really," Rebecca said. "But what I can tell you is that it ties in with the genetic scan the Animus makes."

The van lit up, harsh white light and it seemed to linger for a moment longer than the previous cars had.

Ezio looked at Altaïr, "Your Maria, she was a Templar, wasn't she?"

A distant smile briefly crossed Altaïr's face and Desmond heard himself thinking, _Maria never belonged to anyone. _

"Could that be what this is about?" Ezio said, thinking aloud as he went, looking from one to the other, gaze lingering on Desmond before it settled on Lucy. "The Templar blood mixed with ours. What if it started there?"

"It started when I found the Piece of Eden," AltaÏr pointed out.

"Yeah, well," Rebecca said slowly. "I don't know about that. What I know is that the Animus is programmed to look for certain genetic codes. It'll read everyone, but we've never had output as clear as with Desmond. It looks for one blood specificlly, I'm sure of that."

Another bright glare, so harsh and directly in Desmond's eyes that he had to squeeze them shut for a moment.

"You know, I'd hate to break this up, because we are doubtlessly about to discover something profound," Shaun said. "But for the middle of nowhere there sure is an awful lot of traffic, don't you think?"

A beat. A slow second stretching on in silence.

"You are right," Altaïr said. "Something is wrong."

The road was badly paved, winding down in the jungle and back up on some barren plateau, just barely wide enough to allow two cars to pass each other by, if both were careful. They climbed out of the van, Rebecca hissing with her wound and Desmond groaning with his strained muscles. Only Lucy came close to matching Altaïr and Ezio in their untempered fluidity. A tiny tremor shook the ground under their feet. The disintegration was still continuing.

People were on the road, on bikes and there were two donkeys just visible in the darkness. A few were carrying flashlights or other lamps, most had nothing. They hurried past the group of Assassins without meeting their eyes or even acknowledging them in any way.

"Looks like we've reached another biblical occurance," Desmond remarked sourly. "It looks like a fucking exodus to me."

Ezio sauntered past them casually, hands tucked into his pockets, a nobleman taking a stroll in some metropolises park. He also, quite effectively blocked the way of a group of women and an elderly man. It was obivous that they debated the wisdom of simply walking around him, but then stopped instead. _"Buenas noches,"_ he began amiably, but the group drew together and away from him. A few of the other people were giving them wary looks now.

They didn't _feel _like danger to Desmond, more scared than anything, but fear could make people do stupid things.

The old man suddenly pushed past the two women right in front of him, peered at Ezio's face. _"Tú?"_

Ezio seemed to hesitate, quick eyes scanning the people before returning to the old man. _"No estoy cierto que tu piensas."_

The old man's gaze was intense, digging into Ezio's._ "Yo sé tú cara. Me acuerdo. Ya hace mucho tiempo."_

"No, you don't," Altaïr cut in, drawing forward to stand by Ezio's side. _"Tú refieres a migo."_

The man looked from one to the other. His lips quivered uncertainly, murmuring something which might be curse. One of the women made the sign of the cross.

_"¿Que pasaba a la ciudad?" _Altaïr asked.

Tassamlé sat on a low hill between two steep plateaus. A smattering of smaller houses and hovels built right into the forest, square patches amidst the deep green. The road wound around the hill; larger, colourful houses set along it like pearls and glittering in the morning sun. At the top of the hill was an open square with a fountain, facing a viciously modern, white building with a sweeping roof, curved out and upwards. Tassamlé was white and colourful among the forest.

Lucy pushed the binoculars into Desmond's hand wordlessly.

On the square, black vans were parked in a long row. All the streets were choking with dark-clothed soldiers, assault rifles slung over their shoulders, going from house to house. They were not dragging people out, but given the Exodus, Tassamé was being emptied of people as the Templar's took over.

A low thrumming filled the air, Desmond startled, almost dropped the binoculars to look up. A helicopter circled low above them, employing some kind of silent mode, before it veered towards Tassamlé and landed in the narrow space remaining on the square.

Desmond drew back from the edge and rolled onto his back, staring at the canopied green roof above them. "Shit," he said.

"Ah, I don't know," Shaun said. "Rather nice of them to let the people all go, instead of, you know, just shooting them."

"Yeah, shouldn't they be worried about the authorities coming down on them?" Desmond asked and pushed himself back up.

"The Templars control most governments," Lucy said. "And those they don't control they can influence at least. Besides, look at the date. None of us has to worry about long-term consequences."

"Let's take a closer look," Ezio said, walking to the edge. He looked over his shoulder. "You coming, rookie?"

"In the middle of a Templar stronghold?" Desmond asked back. "How could I say no?"

Ezio smirked and stepped over the edge.

* * *

_Nephilim: The (often monsterous) offspring of the sons of God (fallen angels) and the daughters of men._

* * *

**Spanish, no guarantees. **

_¿Tú?_ You?

_No estoy cierto que tu piensas_. I don't know what you mean.

_Yo sé tú cara. Me acuerdo. Ya hace mucho tiempo._ I know your face. I'm certain. It's been a long time.

_Tú refieres a migo._ You mean me.

_¿Que pasaba a la ciudad?_ What happened in the city?


	14. Wa itha Alnnujoomu Inkadarat

_Beta by my lovely friend Stella! _

* * *

**Author's Note:** Inspiration's hit me hard, apparently. I tend to be overtly critical of my own work, but I love this chapter to little pieces. Also, this is by far the longest chapter in this story. I hope you enjoy, let me know what you think!

About** Chapter 10:** I changed one line to reflect the fact that Lucy actually knows Subject Sixteen. That was an obvious blunder on my part, which is now fixed.

I also fixed some spelling screwups in **Chapter 13. **

* * *

**Chapter 14: Wa-****itha**** Alnnujoomu Inkadarat**

Below, a narrow path ran along the steep slope, winding into battered shrubbery and thin trees of the jungle trying to reclaim the path for its own. It wasn't that far down and Desmond felt the urge to simply imitate Ezio. With his mind in such shambles, there was nothing stopping his instincts from breaking through. Altaïr's hand on his shoulder stopped him, made him freeze. The sensation was odd, displaced. He wasn't supposed to feel him from the outside at all.

Altaïr turned back to the others before he let go. "Let's take a look, yes. Lucy is with us, can you two hide the van?"

"Take a phone with you, at least," Shaun said, pushing the small device into Lucy's hand. "We've lost enough Assassins in the past few days. It is actually not as fun as it sounds."

"I knew you cared, Shaun," Lucy gave a quick grin, pocketing the phone.

"Don't spread it around."

"We'll probably be gone for a while," Lucy glanced at the town sprawled below them. "It'll be slow down there."

"You know, we could just skirt the area entirely," Rebecca said. "Make for Sianak'ab directly."

"No," Altaïr said, shaking his head slightly. "They are here because they must have guessed where we are going. I don't want them at my back, striking when they wish."

Desmond narrowed his eyes, trying to bring the town into sharper focus, but all he could see was the small dark dots of Templar soldiers and the scurrying, more colourful dots of townsfolk. Part of his mind was taking in the layout, almost subconsciously, calculating a path to the square in front of the town-hall, roofs and roads, fenced in gardens and sheds leaning against the walls. Tassamlé provided plenty of cover for a careful Assassin, even with all the people gone.

"Desmond?"

He snapped around, startled despite himself. Lucy gave him a phone. "Don't do anything stupid," she said.

"I'll leave that to the experts," he replied, tried to force a reassuring smile. "I promise."

"Don't joke," she said, but let it go.

In the end, Desmond climbed down the slope and only jumped the last part.

"Finally," Ezio announced. He leaned against a tree a few steps away, casual like a cat, watching them from dark eyes. "The Templars patrol in twos. They work from the centre outward, clearing all the houses. I suggest we split up, too."

He shook himself away from the tree and stepped forward. "Circle around on both sides," he continued. "And work our way toward the square. It's hard to tell whether we'll be able to cross it to get to the town-hall, but we'll see."

Altaïr nodded and held the other Assassin's gaze for a silent moment. Something passed between them, some unspoken accord which Desmond could sense but not tap into, a connection he could _almost _share.

"All right, rookie," Ezio grinned. "Time for another lesson: Infiltrating a Templar stronghold in broad daylight."

"Take care, Desmond," Lucy said and joined Altaïr, following the path away from them before they both vanished into the green.

Desmond growled. "I'm not…" he began.

"Careless?" Ezio asked back. "She's worried. God knows, I'd be worried, too, if I remembered how that worked."

"I was gonna say 'fragile'," Desmond sighed. "But then that's also a state of mind, isn't it?"

He fell in step beside and slightly behind Ezio. They worked themselves through the growth until they reached a wider road and the first row of houses. People were hurrying around, not paying them any attention. They were packing, throwing their belongings careless into cars and on the back of trucks, piling things on bike trailers.

Ezio turned sharp right and made for a narrow gap between the houses, cutting a straight line for as long as they could.

* * *

"I heard what you said to Desmond," Lucy began. "In the car." They were in an enclosed vegetable garden, separated from the road by a splintering wooden fence, just enough to block an easy view in.

"That you aren't real," she added.

"What of it?" Altaïr asked back. He was looking up, scanning the surrounding, then picked a higher wall that cut into the next garden. He pulled himself up and perched for a moment, head pulled low, looking up and down the road, then jumped down on the other side. Lucy followed him.

"It's… an uncomfortable thought," she admitted.

"More uncomfortable than me living for eight-hundred years?" he asked back.

"There is that," she admitted. "Still, it's difficult."

Someone had grown pale pink roses in this garden, providing a fairy tale wall of thorns against the next garden. Altaïr gave the house a quick look, then went to open the garden gate. The street was empty now, the people already gone before the Templars even arrived.

"When there is no truth, how do you measure reality?" Altaïr asked.

"Yes, but you said the Creed could be wrong."

The last word tapered out into a startled grasp when the earth shook again, pushing her against the fence to steady herself. It lasted only a moment and left a faint shivering behind that travelled through the soles of her boots into her throat.

"It's only an important question if you are willing to draw consequences," Altaïr answered. The row of houses opposite the street were higher than on this side, square balconies going out above them. Altaïr sped up into a short run and jumped, gripped the lowest balustrade, pulled himself up and propelled himself to the next.

Lucy hesitated for a moment, watching him. He made it look too easy, she decided, weightless. She took a breath before she followed him. The building shook under her fingers, resisting her, trying to shake her off. She wondered if it was the same for Altaïr, for Ezio, whether they had to fight for all that deadly grace she saw from them now. Desmond had it, sometimes, when he forgot to second-guess himself and let his instinct guide him.

The air was clearer on the roof, less damp and heavy, not forcing her down. It felt like she hadn't taken a proper breath in a long while. Still, she could not stay like this, crouching down by Altaïr's side in the shadow of a chimney.

"What consequences?" Lucy asked.

"If the premise of the war we are fighting is wrong, then we must abandon the war, must we not?" His calm voice chafed at her senses, tearing aberration against her every conviction.

"But the world is ending, we know that for certain, we must do _something_."

"We could yield to the Templars," he said softly. "They want to this end of the world as little as we do."

"The Templars would subjugate us all," Lucy said. Altaïr slipped away from her, to the edge of the roof.

"Slavery is often an easier way," Altaïr answered. "Freedom from burdens and choices and mistakes. Many people would be better off like that."

Before she could reply, he silenced her with a quick gesture, his body pulled tense, attention fixed elsewhere. He had never looked more predatory than now.

Lucy had _never_ questioned the Creed. Her ideals and her goals, all reflected in this one thing, sanctified in the centuries since, proven right over and over again as humanity struggled from the darkness of ignorance into an enlightened age.

Altaïr launched himself from the roof and the moment until she heard the low thud stretched on far longer than it should. Lucy scooted to the edge and glanced down.

Altaïr stood bent over two dead Templars, picking one up and throwing him over his shoulder. He looked up and gestured at her to get down.

She didn't jump. If pressed, she was positive she could handle it, but there was no point in trying to show off, in risking life and limb just for that. She climbed down nimbly enough, not wasting time they did't have. By the time she reached the ground, Altaïr had deposited both Templars in the emptied hallway of the nearest house and began stripping one of them.

"That is what the Templars say," Lucy said as if they had never been interrupted. She narrowed her eyes. "That is what the Templars _told you_, in the memories we recorded from Desmond, I remember it. The nine men Al'Mualim had you kill."

"And now you wonder when I started believing them?" Altaïr asked back. He sounded too casual saying that.

"_Did _you start believing them?" she said, a little more forcefully than necessary and Altaïr smiled faintly.

Her phone beeped, jolting her thoughts. She didn't take it right-away. She couldn't, looking back at Altaïr instead as if she could see his mind if she tried hard enough.

Then she forced herself into movement, clenching her teeth.

"I can barely hear you," Lucy said, finally answering the call. Altaïr gave a questioning look, but she motioned him to wait. The connection was bad, wavering uncertainly below a layer of interference the kind Lucy hadn't thought she would see in modern technology. Rebecca had built the earpieces based on Abstergo design, their range was limited but their transmission was nigh-impossible to track by conventional means. Using them here was a risk, but only a minor one. The Templar would most likely be busy keeping their own people covered, with so many of their own still scoring Tassamlé.

"Have you tried Desmond and Ezio?" Lucy asked Rebecca. She had to repeat herself a few times before she could make herself understood.

"Damn," Lucy muttered when Rebecca was finally drowned out completely.

"Well?" Altaïr prompted, pulling his own boots back on.

"The earth's magnetic field is fluctuating," Lucy said. "I didn't really understand everything, but it screws over our phones and the computers. Rebecca isn't sure she can fix it. At least not quickly."

"But we can assume the Templars are off just as bad," Altaïr observed.

There was something almost mesmerising to watch Altaïr's long fingers taking the Templar's combat gear apart. The Templars were exceptionally well equipped. Shirts and pants from spidersilk, which was strong enough to block small calibre rounds as well as blades. Anything larger would be stopped by a bulletproof, lightweight vest. Both materials had been in development during Lucy's time at Abstergo and could be no more than prototypes.

"What about me?" Lucy asked. "Do we look for a small and girly Templar?"

"We'll be sure to take advantage, if we come across one," Altaïr said, handed her the vest. "Take that, at least. Maybe it'll hold at a distance."

Altaïr slung the gun over his shoulder and started for the door. He stopped in the doorway when Lucy made no move to follow. He turned his head, the profile sharp against the glare outside.

"Tell me now," she said. "If there is something you haven't told us yet."

Altaïr said nothing, simply stood there. She could put a bullet through his head, Lucy thought, as an entirely academic observation. "Is there something more?"

"About my beliefs?" Altaïr asked finally.

_"Anything," _Lucy said. "There is very little margin for error left. If you have doubts, if you'd rather be on the other side, if you…"

"You'd kill me now?" he interrupted softly.

Lucy closed her eyes, just for a second, in an effort to compose herself. "I'd have to try." Because it meant her own death. Ezio might be able to take on Altaïr, or Desmond, once he finally came into his own. But she was just Lucy Stillman, she was just one Assassin and luck alone would not tip those of scales.

She shook her head. She wished she had Desmond's insight, just a little bit, to share in his utter certainty. To sense for herself what she had observed in the Animus. It would be so easy, to concentrate for just a moment and _know _friend from foe beyond doubt and question.

"You don't understand," Altaïr said. He turned slowly, leaned his back against the doorway and put his head back against the splintered wood. "We have to ask those questions. I did not rescue the Assassins from Al'Mualim just to watch them become blind followers of a dogma, not another, not ours. We do not follow blindly. We are not the Templars. But we, unlike them, have to make allowance for their views. It's the only way how we can be certain where we stand."

Lucy felt herself breathe, thought she heard her own heartbeat.

"It's also why you have to challenge me," Altaïr added and there might be something akin to a smile in his voice. "Why you would try to kill me."

"So you don't believe those things?" she asked. She refused to let it simply go, just like that. She needed him to say it.

"I am here to save what can still be saved of this earth," Altaïr said. "And I will take the path that presents itself to me, like the Assassins have always done. We adapt."

He looked at her, still dark against bright and there was a brief, tiny, imagined flash where his eyes would be. "And understand another thing, Lucy," he added. "If saving the world means bowing to the Templars for a little while, we shall do so. Until they can't see us. Until they don't perceive us as a threat any more. Until they can no longer see us coming."

He shook himself free of the doorway. "We need to get going," he said matter-of-factly. "Come with me or take your best shot."

* * *

"I don't think I can do it," Desmond said, his back pressed against the wall at Ezio's side. They had stalked two Templars through the deserted rooms of the house.

"It isn't difficult," Ezio replied. "A proper grip and leverage, that's all."

Desmond chewed on his lower lip. It made sense, of course. There were no crowds in Tassamlé for them to blend in with, but no one would likely look at two more Templars, at least for a while.

"That's not what I meant," Desmond answered slowly. His skin itched with revulsion, imagining his hands at a Templar's head and throat, snapping his neck. It seemed somehow more personal than a bullet or a blade, closer, more intimate. Perhaps it was the thought of killing with his bare hands, how easy it would be to take a life and not even need a weapon to do it.

"It's too late to feel guilty," Ezio said. "And these are hardly innocents."

Somewhere else in the house, something fell clattering to the ground. Some dishes dislodged by the last tremor perhaps, or a frightened cat being careless. It mattered little.

Desmond hissed as Ezio rushed forward and into the room, when he had no choice but to follow.

The Templars were alert, but their reaction time seemed laughably slow, even to Desmond's eyes. Ezio jumped between them, gripped one by the collar and tossed him aside and ducked below the other's reach, dancing down and around his hands already at his head. The Templar's neck snapped with a low, ugly crunching sound, unable to utter a scream or even a whimper.

Desmond had caught the second Templar and used his momentum to run him into the wall, enough to immobilise him momentarily.

"You show them no mercy by hesitating," Ezio said. He made no move, standing there with a dead Templar folded in on himself at his feet. "The Templars swear an oath," Ezio said. "Like we do. They fight and kill and die for what they believe. They chose this. You cannot make their choices for them."

It weren't Ezio's words, Desmond decided later, reasonable as they were. It was the tremor shaking the house, yet another small quake. Their intensity was so faint, so weak, but they persisted. There were cracks everywhere, in the houses and the concrete, much more disorder than the Templar invasion could have brought. The world was ending, after all. And if these times were not desperate enough for desperate measures, then none were.

Desmond pulled the Templar towards him, hands unbelievably steady, dry. A grip executed countless times in other people's lives, with other people's hands, but his muscles remembered as well as he did. They tightened and pulled, jerked to the side and the lump in his throat was, for once, his alone. The man went slack instantly and Desmond was incapable of holding him, snatching his hands back as if stung, letting him crumble to the floor and lifted his gaze only to find Ezio look back at him. But he said nothing more, made no attempt to impart any wisdom, share some justification to ease Desmond's conscience.

Desmond said, "You need to make peace with Altaïr, you know."

He could feel Ezio go still, dark eyes bearing down on Desmond's back. Desmond worked with the complicated clasps of the bulletproof vest, cursing under his breath, trying not to touch the dead man too much as he worked.

"I have no quarrel with the old man," Ezio said tonelessly.

"You fucking do," Desmond snapped. He had worked the clasp loose, shoved the corpse back and forth to free it, then put it aside. The shirt was held closed just as seamlessly, smooth, slippery material under his fingers, fighting him. The Templar was still warm to the touch, asleep rather than dead. Desmond didn't look at his face. "And don't go telling me it's just professional rivalry, because it isn't."

Ezio laughed a little. Desmond could tell it was fake, Ezio hadn't moved a muscle otherwise.

"I have no quarrel with him," Ezio repeated. "But I never asked for any of this. After I confronted Rodrigo, I _earned_ my happy ending. I wanted my happy little life with Rosa, teaching my children how to jump off buildings. I deserved that much."

It would have been easier if there had been rancour in Ezio's voice, or anger, or bitterness. Anything at all but this blandness, all emotion worn away year after year. Desmond had never shared that part, but he knew anyhow.

"It didn't really show at first, of course," Ezio continued. A quiet shuffle as he crouched down by the second Templar, a thin, metallic snap when he opened the vest. "And then, it was just a joke. Rosa used to tease me, that I'd made a deal with the devil to preserve my youth. But she got older and Claudia got older and our young recruits became full-fledged Assassins. Something was wrong and that's when Altaïr came to me."

Desmond pulled the shirt free, held it at arms length to let it cool so he could put it on without being sick. He stood up, squaring his shoulders before he turned. Ezio was already done with the Templar, the man's gear neatly arranged along the side. Ezio stood up as well, undoing the hidden blades from his wrists. He looked at Desmond.

"It's not his fault. Dealing with ancient and powerful artefacts is bound to have some strange side-effects," Ezio said and then a small smile ghosted across his face. "But he reminds me of it. He has embraced this. And I simply can't."

Desmond swallowed dry, he wanted to look away, but he couldn't move. "I'm sorry," he said.

Ezio arched his brows, then shrugged, "We both didn't ask to be dragged into this, but we could have walked away. And we chose not to."

Desmond frowned down at the Templar, his hands still now on the thin magnetic band that kept the pants closed. He sat back on his heels, breathed deeply and stared at Ezio, who had discarded his clothes and was already halfway through the transition to Templar. The shirt didn't fit right, a little too tight around the shoulders, a little too wide around the chest. Ezio made a dismissive gesture against Desmond's silent questioning look.

"Stick with your own boots," Ezio said. "You'll be better off."

His boots were a pair of formerly white sneakers, clashing rather harshly with the beautiful, smooth black of the Templar gear. Desmond knew how it worked, however. The clothes were merely incidental to fool a casual observer, but it was the way you walked and held yourself that made a disguise work.

Desmond didn't want to leave Ezio off the hook. The thought of Ezio falling apart sometime soon scared Desmond more than anything. He had walked in those shoes, shared some of the loss and unlike Altaïr, Ezio had had to rebuilt his strength once, patch it back together after his life had been shattered. Who knew what cracks still remained? And here, at the end of things, which were going to matter.

* * *

"Can you move a little to the left?" Rebecca yelled. "Yes! No! A bit back! Better… No, wait, a _little _to the right!"

Shaun snorted.

He stood on top of the van, hands wrapped around the wired construction Rebecca had built around the antenna. He had already received two electric shocks and didn't think he wanted a third.

"Stop!" Rebecca barked and he froze. A cramp made itself known in his leg, but he didn't dare move. After a moment, Rebecca's face appeared over the side, she grinned. "Just stay like that, I'll get a fix and then it'll be good."

"Piece of cake," Shaun muttered, but she hadn't waited for his answer, simply vanished back inside. Shaun took a deep breath. The air was thick, laden with moisture and the jungle seemed to bear down on them from all sides. _Anything _could hide in that thicket, an entire Templar army, for instance, and these days they didn't run around in heavy, clattering tin-cans to announce their presence far and wide. The back of his skull itched and he strained not to turn his head to make sure there was nothing at his back. Did they still call it paranoia if they were _really _after you?

"Okay!" Rebecca announced. "You can let go now!"

Shaun relaxed with a sigh, took his hands back very slowly so as not to jolt the construction. He slipped from the roof to the soft forest ground.

"I hope that was worth it," he said. "I think mosquitoes gnawed down to my spine." He rubbed his neck for emphasise.

"Sort of," Rebecca said, still grinning.

The inside of the van was wired, too, running the length of it, along the windows and connecting at seeming random points to the carriage.

"Sort of," Shaun repeated.

"It's a frequency problem," Rebecca said. "The interference bounces all over the place. We've made the signal stronger and widened our own reception, so I have a wider margin in which to compensate. I couldn't do it manually, not fast enough, anyway, but I've written a little programme. It'll not hold if the interferences become stronger, or randomise more. But for now, we are good."

She handed him a cable. "Plug in there," she said. "Wireless is no good with this."

Shaun took his own laptop, plugged in and waited for a long time until the machine booted.

"Can we get some news?" Rebecca asked. "I hate being all left in the dark."

The quality was bad, scrambled video and faint sound, but the message itself was clear enough. If this wasn't the apocalypse, it sure was a very good imitation of one.

North America had began evacuating the Yellowstone area because of a possible imminent eruption.

The ground in Siberia split in long lines across the ground, lava pooling from these open wounds to set acres of forests on fire.

In the middle of Europe, too, long-forgotten mountains were waking up and the shorelines of the Mediterranean were changing under the water's onslaught.

Pacific states, from the Philippines to Indonesia, Vietnam, Cambodia were covered by water after a succession of tsunamis.

All of Europe was shaking, Russia, China, Africa. The ground had become unstable everywhere and volcanoes long since extinct were waking up slowly.

Water and earth and all the great and small civilisations of the world were set on fire.

It seemed surreal, to sit out here in the jungle and watching the headlines. Only the occasional tremor under their feet to remind them of the immediacy of the situation. There were no longer any experts who claimed to know what this was, no clever statistics to measure the loss of life everywhere. It was difficult to imagine what it would look like, out there, in the rest of the world.

All of this, and in the end, this was all just the sideshow. Other news were lost among them, but for those who knew better, who knew where to look, there was more, even, than that. They were rushing towards the brink and there was no telling if there really was anything left to be salvaged, even if they could somehow still turn the tide.

"Solar flares," Rebecca said, stabbing a finger at the screen, at the small article, published a few days ago. "On a scale not yet measured in human history."

"I can't believe no one's put it all together yet," Shaun said. "But I guess I'd get tired of all those wannabe prophets foretelling _the End_ and please give me all your money."

"And they have other problems now, I mean, look at this," Rebecca nodded emphatically. "I'm not sure how we are going to stop this," she added, more meekly than Shaun had ever seen her.

"I really wish you hadn't said that," he replied. He was going to say more, but then something else caught his attention, the small little button at the bottom of his screen, which had been dormant or dead for far too long.

"Yes!" he proclaimed. It wasn't good, it couldn't ever be _good _again, not with those many graves needing to be dug, but it was still a flicker, just enough to make giving up seem callous and stupid. The world might be ending, but it hadn't given up the fight yet.

Rebecca narrowed her eyes, pulled her own laptop close. "Where is that? China?"

"Yes."

"I can try to keep it stable. Talk fast."

Shaun nodded, but it took a few long, agonising minutes until the video feed finally remained stable for long enough to make out a woman's face, worn out by fatigue and stress.

"You wouldn't believe how good it is too see you," she said.

"Lian, how is it?" Shaun asked. "We may not have much time."

"Bad," she said. The image winked out for a moment, then returned. "We've bunkered down in our last safe house and aren't moving much. We keep track of news when we can, but recently it's all began going to hell. There are just three of us left over here. We couldn't get in contact with anyone. Thought we were the last, until you turned up."

"I know the feeling," Shaun said. "Right, Lian, I'm afraid I can't give you better news. You are the first cell we've heard from in a long while. I think most have gone to ground."

"What do you need us to do?"

Shaun said nothing immediately, almost grateful for the new wave of interferences that gave him a the freedom to try and collect his thoughts. He caught Rebecca's gaze, but didn't know what she was thinking.

"Sit tight," Shaun said finally. "Stay alive. Try to give a status report every two hours."

"We can do that," Lian nodded. "I hope."

"I'll send you my compensation programme," Rebecca said. "It'll help a little."

"Ah, _ni hao_ Rebecca," Lian smiled tiredly. "Good to see you, too. Thank you."

The transmission took forever, Rebecca chewing on her lower lip as if that would make the bytes move faster, drilling holes into the screen with her gaze.

"Safety and peace," Lian said in parting.

"Safety and peace," Shaun replied. "Wishful thinking, I know, but a little optimism can't hurt."

They could not afford to keep the connection open permanently, not this close to the Templars and whatever tech they had at their fingertips for detecting that sort of thing. Shaun slumped back in his seat. He wasn't even sure it made him happy to know that at least one other group had survived. He had almost already made his peace with the fact that there was no one else to worry about anymore. He stared at the ceiling, watching the labyrinthine wiring.

Rebecca moved, tapping quickly. "You know, maybe I could tap into the Templar network. They have the more powerful tech anyway, if we could piggyback onto their systems we might get much better results. But I can't do it from here."

Shaun looked at her, her pale face and the sickly pink spots on her cheeks. It took him a moment until he realised what he was seeing.

"Rebecca," he said. "You are bleeding."

She blinked in confusion, than looked down on herself. A bright red patch had formed on her side, where the gunshot wound was. "Shit," she observed. "How good of a seamstress are you?"

* * *

"You remember guns, don't you?" Ezio asked as he handed Desmond the rifle.

Desmond took the gun, somewhat warily. "Not semi-automatic assault rifles, actually," he remarked, but he could be lying. It was quite possible he had fired one himself at some point, but he couldn't disentangle his own memories from all those others, not enough to be certain. He wondered when he had stopped caring about it. He knew he had been scared once, of losing himself to this and while that fear still throbbed away at the back of his mind it had become distant somehow, disconnected from him, present but so much less important than anything else. Soon enough, he supposed, he would find killing no more out of the ordinary than all those weapons in his hands.

"The principle hasn't changed much," Ezio said, watched Desmond's face for a moment, then held the gun between them. "Safety off like this," he said, demonstrating. "Mind the recoil."

A multitude of voices in Desmond's head agreed. He remembered guns well enough, in the end, their entire history and all the stages in their evolution. The weight of the rifle on his back was new, though, because the echo of familiarity belonged to someone else.

"What do we do once we get to the centre?" Desmond asked. "Or is that a stupid question?"

It had been easier, navigating in someone else's memories, when, no matter how lost he had been, there was always the knowledge he could back out. The safety of knowing he was watching events that happened centuries before, they were gone and their path was set before him to follow. No mistake, no misstep would mean anything much. It felt like dying every time, but Desmond had always known that it _wasn't _death, that he was coming back from all of this with his skin intact. Here, he simply didn't know. And finding that Ezio and Altaïr simply didn't know either, the way they hadn't known while their lives happened to them, it was disconcerting and worrying.

Ezio laughed to himself. "No, just difficult to answer. I have no idea what awaits us there."

Desmond pulled a face. It was nice knowing that the insecurity was all his own, while the tickling thrill clearly was part of his heritage, at least that's what the glint in Ezio's eyes suggested.

"You like this," Desmond said and wasn't entirely sure whether he wanted to sound as accusatory as he did.

Ezio strode through the room, tilted his head and looked back over his shoulder at Desmond. "Sometimes," he said, seriously for once. He dipped through the door into the shadowed hallway, giving Desmond no choice but to follow.

The sun outside glared harshly against them, a sickeningly thick colour all of a sudden, casting dull, grey shadows against the bright houses, painting the scenery of abandonment even more surreal. Squeezing his eyes shut, Desmond hurried after Ezio to the middle of the road. He felt exposed like this, out in the open when his instincts told him to seek cover and stay hidden until he knew what was coming. The closer to the centre they came, the more chaos reigned around them. People had had less warning here, had been dragged from their houses and send on their way.

"When your family isn't busy dying," Ezio added dryly. "Your parents might not be safe in Marseille."

Startled, Desmond was left speechless.

"There was no better place at the time," Ezio continued. "But now the Templars aren't the greatest threat any more and coastal regions will be hit hardest early on."

Desmond pushed his fingers through his hair, rubbed his temple. "I guess it won't matter if we don't get through with this."

Ezio glanced at him from the side. "It's important," he said. "You fight for something personal, not an abstract. I'd rather you came out of all this alive and sane."

"Because you are a family man?" Desmond asked and he couldn't keep the acid from his tone.

"Because you deserve it," Ezio answered and Desmond knew there was more, that he wanted to say something else and maybe it really would have made a difference. Instead, Ezio fell silent and tensed, suddenly alert and an agonising long moment passed before a young man skidded around a corner in front of them. He was clutching a bundle to his chest. He yelped in surprise when he saw Desmond and Ezio, stumbled to a stop and edged to the side in all the demeanour of a hunted animal.

"I'm sorry!" he yelled in badly accented English. "I didn't mean…!"

Two Templars rounded the corner. Only one of them held his rifle ready, the other's was still over his shoulder.

"Brothers," one of the Templar greeted with a nod before he returned his attention to the young man.

"I'm sorry!" he wailed, clutching his arms tighter to his chest. He was holding some kind of worn leather folder, loose papers inside threatening to slip to the ground. "It's our documents! We need them! If we go elsewhere, we….!"

"Yeah," the Templar nodded. "Problem is, we were told to clear you out. Were giving you a nice chance to just walk away and all. But no, you need to go and make my life all complicated again."

Desmond felt a twitch in his fingers, pulled tense and threatening to accidentally activate the hidden blade. He kept his position slightly behind Ezio, out of the way if Ezio decide to move quickly, and partially covered, letting Ezio take the Templars' attention.

Ezio seemed relaxed, the way you held yourself in the company of allies. His voice, when he spoke, sounded casually amused. "So you hunt this idiot through half the town?" he asked. "Look at him, hardly worth the trouble, now is he?"

The Templar frowned. "And look whose talking. You aren't exactly in position yet, either, are you?"

Something cold travelled down Desmond's spine, leaving him shivering in the sudden gust of wind.

"That's a story for another time," Ezio said dismissively, made a quick gesture with one hand to emphasise the point. He took a step forward, towards the young man, who shrunk away from him. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I'm really so sorry. I'll go. I'll not come back! I swear!"

The Templar shook his head in mock-sadness, but it was his companion who answer. "It's not our problem if you are too dumb to do as you are told."

Ezio made another step forward. "Let's just get going," he said. One more step and he stood between the young man and the Templars.

"Look, mate, this little idiot's been giving us enough trouble," the first Templar said.

"He's got what's coming for him," the other added. He gave Ezio a leer. "We can't all find ourselves some tasty girl, like you two did, by my guess, can we? This one, we'll just shoot."

The young man squeaked, eyes searching frantically up and down the road, trying to figure out which way to flee and coming up with bad options on all counts.

Ezio spread his arms out, put his head to the side in a raptor's gesture. "If you insist, then," he remarked. The change in stance and voice was subtle enough to pass notice. Desmond saw it because his instincts told him it would be there. The warning, minuscule, the moment before the tension breaks into action and everything happens too fast.

Ezio snapped his hand up and slapped down on the Templar's shoulder and held him as he closed the last step forward. The Templar was too surprised to react at first, before his reflexes kicked in just in time to duck back from Ezio's other hand and the hidden blade hissed harmlessly past his cheek. He lashed out with one leg, forcing Ezio to block and buying himself a little more space in which he could bring his rifle around.

The second Templar gave an angry yell, his own gun raised, but he didn't dare fire for fear of hitting his comrade. He cursed and bounced forward, got hold of Ezio's upper arm and pulled. Ezio jerked his head back, but missing the Templar's forehead. Ezio dropped down between both men, hammered his elbow into one Templar's stomach and retracted immediately. The Templar doubled over, letting go of Ezio as he fought for breath.

The other Templar had used the moment to throw his arm around Ezio's neck and pulled hard enough for Ezio to lose his footing for a moment.

Desmond caught the flash of white teeth as Ezio had somehow found the time to grin. Ezio let himself drop further, dragging the Templar down with him before he slipped out of the Templar's grip and danced up and around. One hand closed around the Templar's shoulder once more and a kick knocked the feet away from under him. The Templar fell to his knees and Ezio sank the hidden blade into his neck.

"You…!" the other Templar snarled, back on his feet and launching himself forward.

Desmond smashed the butt of his rifle against his head and the man toppled over.

Ezio let go of Templar slip from his grip to the ground, watching the other squirm.

The young man had watched them from wide, shocked eyes. His mouth opened and closed. He pulled back a few more steps, then turned and bolted down the street.

Desmond took a breath, not looking at Ezio. He put his foot at the side of the groaning Templar, gave a kick. The Templar's voice pitched and he rolled to lay on his back, bringing a slow arm up to shield his eyes against the sun.

Desmond shoved the gun in his face. "Now, don't be too stupid to take the chance we'll give you," he growled. "Care to tell us what's going on?"

* * *

Clouds were climbing the horizon, laden with rain, drawing dull grey shades on the cracked concrete. It pushed thick, warm air ahead of it that flooded between the houses like liquid.

It stalled Lucy in the doorway, forcing her to stand. Altaïr was waiting for her by the road, easily relaxed for all the challenge he had offered her. So late in the game, what could still be considered off-limits? That was the question, really. She had never considered the possibility that surrendering to the Templars could be a viable option. Desmond would know, she thought, Desmond would have the insight to judge it all on its own merits. He was unsoiled, he had not grown up as an Assassin, had not been raised into their ranks like Lucy had. Desmond would know whether perhaps the Assassins had lost their way at some point in all those centuries since Altaïr had saved them and Ezio had rebuilt them.

"I'm not stupid," Lucy said, walking towards him. "That doesn't mean I agree with you."

Altaïr gave a thin smile. "That's half the point."

They strode down the road, side by side and the buildings seemed to be looming around them. It was an exposed position, out in the open like this and they were walking right towards their enemies. Altaïr was taking them to the main road and the town hall on the most direct route the circular layout of the town permitted.

"Tell me something," Lucy said after a time, if only to break the silence. The ghost town around them was disconcerting. The Templars had struck down harder here, dragging people from their houses and gardens, the small kiosks and stalls in an overgrown little park. Torn from their everyday lives, with their possessions lost and discarded on the cracked concrete. Everything was silent, save for the rustle of dry leaves of some papers somewhere, being stirred as the wind slowly picked up. They were past the rainy season, but there was no telling how the global catastrophes might affect the weather.

"I don't really know you," Lucy said.

"I'm the Grand Master of the Assassins," Altaïr answered with a trace of humour.

Lucy narrowed her eyes, then shook her head. "That wasn't what I meant." Although, she supposed, if Altaïr had never truly died, than the title would never have been passed on legitimately making him technically stillGrand Master.

"What did you mean, then?" he asked.

Lucy was silent for a moment. They came to a crossing, where someone had crashed their car, smoke still rising in a thin line from below the deformed hood.

Slowly, she said, "You are a name to me, one who is revered throughout the history of the order. You are the scrambled images from the memories were recorded at Abstergo."

"Just that?" he asked softly.

Lucy stopped, forced him to do the same, to turn and face her. "You seduced me," she said. "So I'd stop opposing you."

"No."

"No?" Lucy challenged. The wind forced a sliver of smoke between them, sharp acrid smell for a moment only to be replaced again by the scent of nearby forest and the oncoming thunderstorm.

"You give me too much credit," Altaïr stated. "I did no such thing. You are an Assassin and I'd expected you to fall in line, I do not have to resort to such indecent measures. And you approached me, Lucy."

Altaïr moved away from her, gave the crashed car a wide berth. The street went steep for a few metres before it even out, leading to a long row of houses. They were not as tall as the ones further down, set further apart and with cleaner facades, the gardens between them, full of lush green and oversized flowers. The street was strewn here, too, and just as deserted as anywhere else.

"Well, you could have said 'no', couldn't you?" Lucy pointed out.

Altaïr smirked a little, glancing at her. "Why would I do that?"

He drew to a halt, surveying the street in both directions, gaze travelling along the houses and up their balconies.

"Integrity?" Lucy offered, but she was no longer certain she meant to force the topic. It hadn't just been about finding out what he'd do if she made herself vulnerable. It had been about him offering the same. At their core, perhaps, all Assassins were wild beasts, requiring certain gestures before they were willing to trust each other.

"You said disagreeing with you is half the point," Lucy said. "What is the other half?"

"Doing what I say even so," Altaïr said, took a step forward. "Something is not right."

Other than the slight trembling of the ground under her feet, Lucy wanted to say, or the empty street around them, where only hours before life was being ordinary and reliable. The silence had been oppressive ever since it had come down on them, when the wind had picked up bringing first the heat, then the cool air of the storm.

And there were telltale signs, invisible, but edged against the air. The crackle of electricity, charging the atmosphere and drawing their surroundings in sudden sharp relief.

Her mind raced, reviewed each step they had taken to get here, looking for the mistake, the blunder that would turn all of this on its head. There had been no other Templars to cross their path, except those they had killed. It made sense for the outskirts, where the Templars would be spread thin, but they were much closer to the central square now.

Altaïr walked another few steps forward.

"What…" Lucy began. His senses were so much sharper than her's, honed in so many more battles. Dread slowly climbed its way up her throat. Without taking her eyes from the houses in front of them, she put the phone to her ear. Static filled her head, frustratingly consistent and unwavering. "I can't call the others," she said and Altaïr nodded in acknowledgement.

There was nothing for a long minute. Only the clouds overhead moved, chased by the storm and the first sharp stab of lightning above the forest to the left of them. The moment strained and Altaïr broke it, deliberately, when he took one last step. It jolted their surroundings, suddenly. And the silence shattered against the low, distant clattering of guns and the whisper of spidersilk. The Templars drew from their hiding place, seeming merge from the walls and the gardens, suddenly lined the balconies ahead of them. Squads of them appeared at both ends of the road, where it bent around Tassamlé's hill, advancing slowly, until they were within easy shooting range.

Altaïr looked back over his shoulder, caught her gaze with his own, hard cold metal gleamed. He waited until her attention skittered away from the Templars, away from counting them, calculating chances and distances. Lucy wasn't afraid, she was pulled too tense to be.

"Be ready," Altaïr said. "And run."

Something in his voice made her shiver where she stood, shaken to the bones by more than a mere earthquake. She was born and raised an Assassin. She had always known about violence and death. Where other children were told stories of sleeping princesses, Lucy had heard about the death of queens, tyrants and emperors. Stories, too, of one man hurtled into the chaos to fight and another, long before even that, who had killed ten men to save them all.

But more than this, she realised, the Templars had been reared on similar stories for old enemies often share the same histories among them, hopelessly entwined as they are.

From the building directly in front of them, one man stepped forward on the roof.

"Stop right there!" he yelled. "Put down your weapons _slowly!"_

Lucy didn't move until Altaïr did, let the assault rifle slip from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Anything else would be stupid, with so many guns trained at them. The vest could catch the bullets, and Altaïr wore the spidersilk as well. But among all those Templars, one was bound to be a good enough shot. Altaïr spread his arms out, just slightly.

"Surrender now!" the Templar barked sharply. Everything about him, his posture and his tone, suggested he didn't expect anything else from them. Lucy held still. Back and the right of her was the widest space she had from any Templar and maybe, if she was fast enough, the hill would take her out of sight fast enough. It would require a distraction, though.

Altaïr put his head back, fixed the Templar on the roof, shrinking the distance and the Templar made a tiny, involuntary movement as if he meant to ward against an attack, however ridiculous that might appear.

"I do not surrender, Templar," Altaïr answered, voice pitched just loud enough to carry in the leaden silence.

"Should be a no-brainer," the Templar said, motioned with both arms. "Look at your chances."

Altaïr had been part of her life, always. Not like Desmond, but inseparable still. She had grown up with the legend of a man in white. Just like all the Templars lined up against them.

Altaïr began to walk forward, in a measured pace slow enough as not provoke any bullets immediately. It might almost be non-threatening. Every step, Lucy knew, brought him closer to the house and out of range of the Templars on the balconies. Would make him a bad target for those up and down the street, who would have to fire in the direction of their own people. He still would never make it, not this far, and they would shoot him.

"No," Altaïr barked. "Look at yours."

He had slowed his advance, but was still edging forward.

The Templar laughed and Altaïr tilted his head back a little more, assessing the situation once again.

Lucy realised she would not see it. She had to turn tail and run the very same moment Altaïr chose to attack, when all attention would be on him. She would not see him die and that would only make everything worse. It would follow her for the rest of her life with images she had never seen, events unfolding in her mind the way they _might _have been. She thought she could already see the blood seep into the concrete.

Still, despite the turmoil of her thoughts, her body was ready to spring. Instincts and deeply ingrained training doing what her minds no longer processed. And maybe, just maybe her thoughts were as frayed as they were, as lost and conflicted, because something within her kept insisting that _this _was not as obviously futile as it appeared.

"Not another step!" the Templar yelled and Altaïr complied. His back to her, she would have given anything to see his face.

"I," Altaïr began, echoes of his voice beating all along the deserted street. "I am the Master of the Assassins!"

The reaction was visible even at a distance, an wave of small movement in all the Templar, with the quick look they gave their comrade in arms right next to him, a longer look at their leader up on the roof. The question hanging in the air between them.

Altaïr shifted his legs for a better stance. He flicked his fingers and the hidden blades sprang free from their sheaths, they caught the cold light of the storm, so small and so deadly, to an order that had grown up to stories of their greatest leaders falling to their bite.

"I am Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad!" he announced with the force of a whiplash. "You have been trying to kill me _for centuries."_

Time and space drew together to a pinpoint moment, edged in the same light and it skittered there, while the first thunder rolled in the distance. A snarl came into Altaïr's voice and Lucy didn't think it carried as far as before, but it made no difference anymore. "Do you think you can take me?"

Lucy threw herself around and jumpstarted, she ran blindly, expecting a bullet in the back of the head at every heartbeat and wondered dimly if she would still feel herself fall if she was hit like that. The silence behind her was monumental, stretching on and on as she ran, while time had gone strange and unreliable. Reason said it was the adrenaline in her system, changing her perception, but reason itself was becoming indistinct. How far could Altaïr come in that precious moment of shock, when the Templars' own fears came crashing down around them?

And then the shooting began, all at once, a merciless crackle hailing down behind her, flooding the street like the rain that would soon drench the town. Lucy felt the noise spill out behind her, lapping at her heels like a pack of wolves. She wanted to turn, she _needed _to turn back, to face their enemies on the master's side.

Instead, she kept going. She slowed a little, when the heartbeat in her ears grew too loud, when her breathing hitched dangerously. Her world had fallen apart for the second time in the span of just a few short days. But nothing was done, nothing was finished, and nothing was true.

* * *

**References used in this chapter:**

_Wa-itha alnnujoomu inkadarat. (Someday the stars will fall.) The Qu'ran, 81:2 _Transliteration from muslimaccess dot com. Most commonly translated as 'and when the stars fall', Wikiquote gives it as 'someday…', which is the version I prefer here, because it fits better with what I want. I cannot judge which version is more accurate. You may wish to read the whole of sura 81. It's very fitting.

_"…one man hurtled into the chaos…"_ paraphrased from Dragon Age 2: "Hurtled into the chaos, you fight…"

_"…for old enemies often share the same histories among them…"_ idea from the Prince of Nothing Series by R. Scott Bakker.

There was going to be an Orpheus one, but it didn't want to be incoorporated elegantly. Also, I almost had Altair quote the always gorgeous Lymond with "my bed is no marketplace", but I stopped myself in the last moment.


	15. So I Drew These Tides of Men

_Beta once again by my dear friend Stella!_

* * *

**Author's Note:** Because I screwed that one up once before, this chapter has a little more **gore** than previous installments. If you want me to up the rating or something, just let me know!

* * *

**Chapter 15: So I Drew These Tides of Men Into My Hands**

The Templar died with a gargling, bloodied laugh in his throat, silenced by the bullet through his forehead. Desmond felt it, dragged down with it. A memory, or at least part of one. A real, tangible memory of being shot in the head. It wasn't like he had imagined, for one, it was painless. Only the pressure, mounting and forcing the air from his lungs and his heart beating out of his chest, plunging him into darkness.

Ezio's hand closed around his arm so hard he would leave bruises, forcing Desmond back to his feet mercilessly. Blinking the black spots from his vision, Desmond looked at Ezio and would have flinched, had he trusted his balance enough to do so. The congeniality had faded from Ezio, leaving in its place something impeccable and harsh, _il Mentore _of the Assassins from so long ago with a mind to equal Machiavelli's.

Desmond trembled in Ezio's grip and wished desperately he had the ground to blame for it, but it was calm for once.

"Breathe," Ezio told him, not unkindly, but an order nevertheless, in a tone Desmond obeyed without thinking. He snapped for air, rather like a fish out of the water, which made sense enough, given that he felt like one most of the time, at least in those moments when he still _was _himself. It needed to stop. He couldn't afford to be tossed into any random memory by whatever crossed his path.

It was a trap, that had been the last revelation of the Templar, gloating when he had nothing left to lose. The Templars would clear the town, then withdraw and hide, watching for anything coming up the hill that didn't belong there. They had been supposed to be long since in position, gone from the lower and outer reaches of Tassamlé and awaiting the inevitable infiltration attempt by the Assassins. Easy enough, come to think of it, _simple _enough and any one of them should have expected it. Desmond was unsure whether Altaïr and Ezio had truly been unaware or whether they had merely decided to keep the suspicion from them. After all, what else would they have done other than go into Tassamlé? Trap or not.

"We should go back to the van," Desmond said. "Regroup with the others." He wished Ezio would let go of him, even if they both knew Desmond would only stumble again. The feeling of death wouldn't go away, the memory, once roused, burned too deep, too acrid to let itself be buried again.

A heavy drop of rain splashed against Desmond's face, harsh sting on his dulled skin and he tossed his head like an animal.

Ezio scrutinised their surrounding, sharp eyes mapping the houses around them, the street winding upward and the emptiness around them. "No, we go on," he said. Of course it would be Ezio who made the decision, infinitely more experienced than Desmond as well as not the one currently on the verge of toppling over. It still grated, at the back of his mind. There were too many of them now, too many people shuffling to the forefront, scattered memories, too many to make sense of, ill-defined and vague. Many had been Assassins, though, and powerful ones at that, and they collectively bristled at being countermanded like this. It didn't really matter that they mostly _agreed _with Ezio.

Desmond never found out what he would have done or would have said, never mind _who _would have answered from these warring individuals. For a split second, Desmond thought it was thunder, rolling in across the jungle, but it didn't stop. The sharp crackle of gunfire echoed down to them. It didn't come from very far away, two rows of houses, at the most.

_I'm dying, _Desmond thought, the memory from before rewriting itself into a premonition, a warning send from the past into the present and still arriving too late.

Ezio whipped around and started running, perfect fluid gait, smooth and untiring and Desmond was too lost, too confused, to do anything but follow.

The race spread out before Desmond like a film — or a memory, really — old concrete under his feet with new cracks from the recent quake, bits and pieces of Tassamlé's daily life strewn about, blocking his path, forcing him to jump with no time to calculate. He felt the ground under his feet, abrasive and holding him back. Ezio was ahead of him, scaling a small hovel rather than going around it. Desmond gripped the splintering wood, felt it scrape against the unyielding metal of the hidden blades against his wrists. His feet slipped only twice and he sprinted across the roof and was too fast to break in and jumping down the other side only to land awkwardly.

Ezio sprinted across the street, then unexpectedly swerved to the right and into a narrow alley between two taller houses. Desmond was blind for a moment, dipping into the darkness. Just in time, Desmond saw that Ezio had stopped, pressed his back to the wall where the alley opened up into the street. Panting hard, Desmond edged forward, taking the opposite wall and peering out into the light, his eyes adapting.

The thunderstorm was still rolling over them, withholding the rain it had threatened, but the wind hissed around the corner, carrying dust from the street and the scent of the jungle.

A battlefield spread out in front of them, a snapshot from a war-zone. The walls of nearby houses were riddled with gunshot holes, plaster still crumbling in the wind. A handful of corpses were strewn on the ground in front of the three-storied building right in front of them, blood pooling under them. As they watched, two more shots were fired from somewhere inside the building, then there was silence again.

If he looked hard enough, Desmond knew he could follow the path Altaïr had taken. Across the street and up on the front of the house where a Templar still hung limply over a balustrade. Blood had splattered there and someone had fallen through the closed balcony door. Another shot and Desmond twitched forward only to find Ezio suddenly too close, pushing him back against the wall on a long, outstretched arm.

Desmond snarled at him, pushed against the grip until Ezio was forced to pin him with both hands, leaning in with his weight.

"Rookie," Ezio said sharply. _"Desmond."_

"We must help them!" Desmond snapped. In this moment, it was beyond him to comprehend that Ezio still stood there, so calm, so collected. You could almost believe he had never lost anyone important to him.

"Yes, we must," Ezio said. "But without getting shot ourselves."

Desmond stared into Ezio's eyes, because he couldn't just let it go. He needed to be sure of Ezio and his intentions, but he couldn't read in those eyes, they were too deep and too dark and too _old. _The whispering in his head offered no insight, either. His ancestors _understood _this, on a level that Desmond could not — not quite or not _yet_ — fathom. He forced his body to relax a little, as much as he could and Ezio stepped back from him.

"We split up and circle around," Ezio decided. "We'll meet up on the other side. Keep your back to the wall, rookie."

Desmond breathed, eyes still narrowed, ill-defined misgivings just _there_ where common sense told him how dumb it would be to act on it.

He looked back at the house. Ezio was already on the move, back through the alley where they had come from, picking his way through a garden. Desmond pushed himself into action. The shooting had stopped. It did make sense, of course, getting killed helped no one. But now? What if there was nothing left to save? What if they were dead? The dreams came back like another memory; a pile of corpses, horribly, hopelessly disfigured. But it hadn't ever been _real _in that sense. Desmond trusted in Altaïr's skill, nothing else made sense. Being defeated had never been part of it.

Lucy was no legendary Assassin from ages past, no immortal warrior with the promise of salvation. It didn't stop her from being damn good at what she did. He didn't want to picture her dead, broken in that empty house, her slender body riddled with wounds. He didn't want it but it was there nonetheless, his mind had no resistances left to put up against those images.

Desmond clenched his teeth and pulled himself up on a garden wall. He let his instincts carry him, Desmond Miles on his own was unable to find his way.

* * *

It never happened like this. Desmond cannot, no matter how broken the barriers of his self, know what happened on that street in Tassamlé. He has memories, though, too many of them, from across the centuries. The cacophony in his head of battlefields across the world, the deafening shattering of swords and axes and maces and the hail of arrows and sling-bullets and the merciless smattering of canons and guns in a great, confusing echo through time. It takes no effort to imagine how it _might have been, _and he could just as easily be right. In his mind, he saw it and felt it.

_An instant is all Altaïr has, when the Templars are cowed before his name, when they forget their numbers and have only primal, ancient fear to guide their actions. Altaïr breaks into a run, carried on long legs and he doesn't — quite — make it. He still wears the Templar's combat gear, though, the spidersilk catches the bullets on his arms and legs and the vest shields his torso. Maybe a stray bullet sears past his head, guided by chance rather than fate, but nothing breaks his advance. He doesn't climb the first balcony, he _flies _barely touches the wall. He perches for a split second on the balustrade before he dives down on the nearest man, tearing him down. A second Templar makes a jump for him and Altaïr whips around, extends his arm and the Templar spears himself on the hidden blade. _

_Altaïr doesn't linger, he breaks through the balcony door in a rain of glittering shards. He makes it to the stairs outside the flat. Templars clattering from below and those from the other balconies making their way for him, cutting off both directions. Altaïr sneers, bares his teeth and jumpstarts again, collides with a group of Templars as they come down the stairs. He kills one with a blade through the eyes, tears his hand back and around to slash another's throat. He catches the falling man and twists them around his head pulled down between his shoulders and bullets hiss above them. He grips the dead man's arm, dislodges his fingers from the gun and pulls the trigger, sweeping the hallway. The first line of Templars fall, those behind take cover. _

_Altaïr tosses the corpse down the hallway, making the first few pursuers stumble. Altaïr doesn't watch. He has already turned back and rushes forward. The butt of a gun misses his shoulder just barely, slips past harmlessly. Altaïr grips the Templar by the collar, helps him down. More shots draw an arch in the wall above him. He twitches to the side and swings onto the handrail, jumps and pulls himself up on the next floor. _

* * *

Ezio wasn't there.

Desmond had been careful on his short journey, moved slowly and forced the urge down to hurry. Since the shooting had stopped, it didn't seem to make any more sense to rush. Either Altaïr was dead or the Templars were, after all, and there was nothing left to save either way. He had given the house and its slaughter a wide berth, circling around the town, climbed garden walls and stuck to the shadows. He had lost time doing that, Desmond thought, taken too long to work out a route, so how could he now stand here, on the other side of the house, and be alone?

It had been a trap. Desmond looked up at the house and then around the empty street. It was deceptively tranquil, now that the storm had passed and the clouds were tearing open before blue sky, it had taken a different hue now that the afternoon was ending. What if they hadn't sprung this trap? What if it was still there, maws wide open for the next Assassin to trip? Whoever had set this up was able to read the situation as well as they. There was no going anywhere but forward and knowing that, why set up only _one _such tripwire?

Could it even be that easy? Not one, but two of the greatest Assassins of all time, felled within moments of each other? And where did that leave Desmond? Where was the fucking point of Lucy's hope and the entire bleeding effect when all those memories and all that experience wasn't enough to bring them through this?

Surely, if Ezio had been confronted, Desmond would have heard it?

Desmond put his back against the wall and stared up at the sky. It was peaceful and for a moment, he could almost believe it.

He closed his eyes and pushed himself away from the wall and hesitated for only a heartbeat. _If _they were all gone, that was all the more reason not to give up.

The door was ajar, crunched in its hinges as Desmond pushed it open and slipped into the cool shadow of the house's stairway. A Templar had fallen down here, blocked the way and Desmond stepped around him and the puddle of blood that had formed around his head. The higher Desmond climbed, the more carnage was strewn in the hallways. Altaïr had been moving upward, using the narrow space of stairs and hallway to his advantage, not few of the Templars had been accidentally killed by their own comrades.

Desmond had to stop, vertigo gnawing at his senses, trying to pull him down.

_The bullets batter the spidersilk, riddling the skin underneath with bruises. The hidden blade isn't strong enough to penetrate the Templar's armour and he can only strike at face and neck. There are not enough openings for him to use, not against so many. He sidesteps an attack and he knows there is someone behind him, he feels the proximity, but he cannot evade the blow to his own head. It jars him for a second, but he forces himself through the pain, blinded in this instant, instinct takes over. Altaïr throws himself backward with his full weight into the attacker, feels the resistance of the other's body and twists around it. He comes up behind and slashes the hidden blade down into his spine. Another Templar lunges for his arms, grips his wrists and rips his arm back. He isn't fast enough to save his friend. Altaïr turns, slams the other hand into his face. _

It never happened like this, Desmond kept telling himself. He couldn't look at a battlefield and tell how it had come to be. A Templar at his feet was staring up at Desmond from one eye, the other had been skewered, the skin around it torn away and what remained of the eyeball partially dislodged when the blade was withdrawn. Part of Desmond tells him the view was sickening, but most of him was dulled to it. He had seen far worse, even though he hadn't, only in dreams, only other people's mind. He had done far worse, too, just not with his own hands.

The fight had moved through the house like a living thing, leaving a trail of blood and corpses behind. Desmond saw lumps of flesh, part of an ear, or a nose. It still clung to the wall where it had left a sluggish trail as it slid down.

Reaching the last floor, the atmosphere was different. Charged still, unlike before where the tension had already spent it. In front of a door, five Templars lay. Desmond didn't pause to see what wounds had killed them, their limp bodies were enough evidence of their deaths. No one here is faking anything. But something else catches Desmond's attention before the dead, before anything else. The taste of defeat and the sight of inevitability, where it glittered in another pool of blood.

Desmond crouched down and picked the blade up, cut his finger on the edge and watched the drop slide down his hand, to the edge of the gauntlet where his own hidden blade nestled in its sheathe.

_He stabs the blade through the tiny seam of the shirt, where the magnets hold it closed. It's durable enough, but it wasn't designed to withstand close-quarter combat for long. The seam parts and the undershirt offers no additional resistance. The Templar screams in pain when Altaïr pulls his arm down, along the seam and opens up the shirt as well as the Templar's body. It takes too long, it is not an effective way to dispatch of them. He has no time to dwell on it. Altaïr ducks below another blow, he feels himself tiring, but it doesn't slow him down. He can be exhausted later, when there is time or he is dead. _

_He guts another two Templars, but then he misses and the blades scratches uselessly past the armour. _

"I told you to get out."

Desmond straightened up as if stung. The voice had spoken from past the door.

"I do not take your orders."

Desmond put his hand against the door, felt the splinters try to dig into his palm as he put pressure against the wood.

Beyond the door was a living room, it must once have been homely, but now it was devastated. A bookshelf had been torn from the wall under a Templar's deadweight, toppling him on a crumpled rug and another corpse. On the right was an old desk, the yellowed computer had been torn down and by the looks, the ramshackle chair had been crashed over a Templar's back. In front of Desmond lay a Templar who had half a bottle in the back of his head. A few other corpses were around whose precise cause of death was difficult to assess.

Ezio stood at the centre of the carnage, tall and deadly. He acknowledged Desmond only with a slight move of his head, poised like a panther.

On the other end of the room, facing the door, was an old couch. Chequered in faded blue and red, ripped and torn on one side to make soft upholstery swelling forth like innards. Altaïr sat on the couch, slouched back and head put against the backrest to stare down the length of his nose at Ezio. At first, Desmond saw nothing wrong with him, nothing changed for all the battle he had just fought. It was only when Desmond looked closer that he saw everything that was wrong.

Altaïr had lost the vest at some point and the clasps of the shirt had given way into a sharp slash down his chest. The skin visible there was riddled with dull, red spots where the bullets had hit. A large bruise had began spreading along one collarbone and fingerprints clearly showed along his throat. Altaïr rested one arm on the back of the couch, but the other lay limply by his side, the gauntlet was gone.

"Ah, Desmond, finally," Altaïr greeted him caustically, but his attention only passed over him before it snapped back to Ezio.

"You must take Desmond to Sianahk'ab," he said.

"You need help," Desmond pointed out. His throat was still closed, what was left of his mind wasn't working properly. He was operating on autopilot, really. Everything else was too complicated, too difficult to tackle in the middle of all this.

Altaïr's gaze flickered. He said, "That's easy enough. You'll leave me here for the Templars to find. They'll patch me back together, if only so they can torture me later."

Ezio glanced over his shoulder at Desmond. His face was hard and because Desmond had _seen _him so rarely, he couldn't read his expression at all.

Ezio said, "I'm not leaving anyone to the Templars." He gave Altaïr a critical look. "You can still walk. I'll go ahead and make sure the way is clear, Desmond can cover us. We go back to the van, regroup with the others."

Ezio turned around and made to go, he got as far as the doorway — Desmond hovered uncertainly — before Altaïr's voice caught and pinned him.

"You don't get it," Altaïr snarled. "You never did, ever since I took you from Monteriggioni. _I _don't matter, _you_ don't matter. None of this." He gestured with his good hand. He bared his teeth, leaning forward, driven by his own intensity, his control worn thin and threadbare by the fight. "In a time before reckoning, a warning was sent into the future and if we don't heed it _now, _this world will die. You must bring Desmond to Sianahk'ab, because that is where the answers are. This is the fight I brought you here for."

Ezio had gone still while Altaïr spoke.

And Desmond saw the change, like an actual shift in the colour spectrum, the way the Animus would interpret Eagle Vision, as if it was too strong to otherwise express. Altaïr and Ezio both had always, always been _safe, _dependable in a world that had become as unreliable as the very ground. That sense of belonging, of trust and loyalty. Desmond hadn't realised how much that certainty had anchored him, stabilised him when they were both suddenly in two places — inside his head and in front of him. And now it was gone, snuffed out like a candle-flame in a hurricane.

"What do you mean, you 'brought' me here?" Ezio asked lowly.

Desmond knew it for a mistake in the long moment it took for Altaïr to answer; a slip-up which he would never have made under normal circumstances. Only now, his control had been grated too thin and because of that, too, he made no attempt to cover his mistake.

Altaïr gave a brittle laugh. "Don't be such a little boy," he said. "Why would the Apple preserve your life? Why should you become unaging just by walking into a room? The Prophet had served his purpose already. No, Those Who Came Before neither knew nor cared. But I cared. When Desmond appeared," he looked at him for a split second, "he'd need us. All my life, I tried giving him an army. But I realised the time was too long. No matter how strong I made the brotherhood, the times would still change and all my work be for nought."

"You did this to me," Ezio whispered. Even Desmond, who stood much closer, barely heard it. It didn't matter, when he was — always — so hopelessly outmatched and outclassed around them. Seeing what was about to happen and be powerless to stop it.

Ezio rushed through the room, lightning-fast, like the wildcat he so much resembled. He gripped Altaïr by the collar of his shirt and pulled him up, only to smash him into the closest wall. Anything but the spidersilk would have torn under his hold. His other hand closed around Altaïr's shoulder. Both of Ezio's hidden blades close to Altaïr's throat or his heart.

"I _told _you I hated it," Ezio hissed, brought his face so close to Altaïr's they were almost touching. "_Porca vacca! _I told you! You lied to me all this time!"

Altaïr narrowed his eyes._ "Tutto è lecito."_

"_Chiudi il becco_!" Ezio snapped. "Don't quote the Creed at me!" He lowered his voice, tightened his grip.

Desmond was lost. The floor pulled away right from under his feet, leaving him suspended in the moment before he began to fall. He couldn't handle this. He couldn't stand here and watch Altaïr and Ezio tear each other to pieces. They were equals, always had been, so much so that Desmond sometimes couldn't even tell them apart in his head, regardless of whatever superfluous difference there might be. Equals and because of that, neither would ever survive this fight. Altaïr was wounded and Ezio was angry, when nothing short of perfection was likely to fell either man. It had always been even between them and they both had known it. That was why they had avoided each other for centuries and yes, Desmond had joked about it a scant hour ago. It was rivalry in its purest and deepest form. The irrefutable realisation that, no matter how good you were, there existed another, just as good, just as lethal.

They _had _fought, once, Desmond was certain of it now. Had fought and ended it with a truce, an alliance between two masters. Until now, until this. Altaïr had lied and betrayal was the one thing Ezio would never forgive.

Altaïr made no attempt to struggle. He simply looked back at Ezio, almost calmly. "It's not about lies," he said, breathing a little strained from where Ezio's hand pressed against his neck. "It's about value, Ezio."

"Value?" Ezio echoed impatiently.

"How many Assassins do you think I saw through the centuries?" Altaïr asked. "Good men, skilled men, passionate. Men like your father."

Ezio almost sprang the blade. "Men like my sons," Altaïr added and Ezio relaxed his fingers ever so slightly. Desmond drew up behind him, making Ezio swivel his head just slightly, not really a distraction, more like a reminder that there was more still than this stalemate.

Altaïr continued, "But none of them, in _eight_ centuries, was extraordinary. None of them great. Just you. So yes, it is about value."

His body tensed and gold flickered in his eyes. "But if you don't let go right now, I will end you."

It was too much for Desmond. Too much pressure where he could barely keep himself together anyway. His surrounding faded and blurred when too many sceneries tried to manifest themselves at the same time. He was in the desert. In the mountains. On a ship and he could smell the salt. He stood on precious mosaic tiles, scratched by his boots, soiled by another's blood. He was Altaïr striding across the rooftops of Jerusalem and he was Ezio who ran away a child and came back a man. He was a fast-talking stablehand in the Old West and a warrior-poet in an arched courtyard of Tulaytulah; he stood at the foot of the Bastille, brandishing an ancient weapon and he was his own grandfather, returned to the desert at last determined to built a safe haven against the onslaught of the world. And somewhere, at the end of it, he was Desmond Miles, who finally understood what he had ran away from and who he was never going to be again.

"Stop it," Desmond said. He sounded like a stranger in his own ears, something had broken and there was no going back. He looked at Ezio and then at Altaïr and the betrayal stung him, too, because he was Ezio.

"Please," Desmond added. "We have to find Lucy. Get back to the others. We can't stay here."

A small tremor went through Ezio as he visibly fought to control himself. It didn't help that Altaïr made no such concession, made no attempt to retract the threat. Ezio loosened his grip, ever so slowly, forcing every tiny muscle to move. Once contact was broken, he twisted away, took several cautious steps back and eyed Altaïr warily, expecting retaliation.

Instead, Altaïr stayed where he was, slumped a little against the wall. A tiny drop of blood ran down the side of his neck, vanished beneath the crushed edge of the shirt.

Desmond stamped his foot in frustration. Glaring at the other two Assassins. He looked like a child, he knew, but he had nothing left with which to care. "I can't do this," he said. "Not if you turn on each other. Have you any idea what that does to my head?"

No compassion was forthcoming, Desmond had expected that, too. Altaïr was still focused on Ezio with a newly pensive expression and Ezio was fighting for composure.

"We'll go," Ezio finally said. He looked back at Altaïr with eyes still too dark. "Yes, I think, we'll leave you for the Templars."

* * *

Night fell quickly in this region. No long sunsets of golden and red, no slow dip into darkness. A moment of diffuse twilight was all and it might as easily be the remnants of the brief thunderstorm as the coming of night. It was dark in the jungle, outside the open spaces of the town. Too dark and too quiet, Lucy observed as she carefully made her way through the shrubbery.

The urge was still there, the want — the need — to go back, no matter how unreasonable. She had been trained to fight long before she became a scientist. She was not from a bloodline as prestigious as Desmond's. Her parents had been recruited during the French Revolution and snatched from the guillotine in its aftermath. Her family still went back a long way, long enough for this to be ingrained in her blood as much as in anyone's.

She did not go back. She was too late now, whatever had transpired could never be taken back.

The van was parked at the end of a small clearing, positioned such that it would be difficult to come at it from all sides, while still allowing them to make a quick escape into the thicket should it come to this.

The doors of the van were open to allow the cords to wrap around the carriage.

"Wriggling around just makes it worse!" Shaun was saying when Lucy approached. She climbed in and Shaun glanced at her briefly. His face was worn, gone hollow and haggard in the space of a few handful of days.

His hand was on Rebecca's shoulder, pushing her down on the seat. Her shirt was pushed up, soaked with blood as it was and fresh blood had already worked itself through the fresh bandage.

"What happened?" Lucy asked.

"The stitching broke," Shaun said. "I tried to fix it, but I'm not precisely an expert on gunshot wounds. Besides, the bleeding worries me."

He eyed Lucy. "What happened?" he asked in pointed echo.

For a moment, Lucy said nothing. Rebecca needed professional help, but even if Tassamlé had a hospital, its staff was long gone.

"We walked into a trap," she said simply. She pushed past them, took a seat in front of Rebecca's computer. "Have you reached Desmond and Ezio?"

Rebecca, glaring at Shaun, pushed herself to her elbows. "The geomagnetic reversal is affecting our communications. It broke down completely about fiveteen minutes ago. The interference fluctuates, so it'll probably be back in another five minutes or so."

"We need to go," Lucy said. "It's too dangerous here."

Rebecca fell back, stared at the ceiling silently, trying not to meet Shaun's gaze.

"Let me address the elephant," Shaun began. "Where is Altaïr?"

Lucy's attention, for all appearances and purposes, was fixed on the screen in front of her, watching the signal dance.

"He stayed to fight," she said. "I don't know what happened afterwards." Because she wasn't going to say he was gone, saying it would acknowledge the possibility of his defeat and there was still that glimmer of hope she couldn't shake and feared to shatter.

She looked up, caught Shaun's gaze and held it for a moment.

"It doesn't matter," she decided, convincing herself rather than him. "We keep going."

"Not much of a choice," Rebecca groaned. She was going pale with the loss of blood. She pushed herself up again. "Look, if you'll let me, I can clear the signal earlier. It'll make us easier to spot by the Templars, but if they already know we are here anyway, maybe it's better to send a warning."

She struggled free of Shaun and Lucy vacated her seat.

Shaun watched her for a moment, looked back at Lucy for confirmation.

"I'll drive," he finally declared and didn't wait for an answer.

* * *

From the mayor's office, the view was gorgeous. Tassamlé fell down before it like a peasant bowing to its lord and beyond, the jungle stretched like the sea. High enough, here, to see the stars on the sky through the chasing clouds.

Alan Rikkin stood for a while, his hands clasped behind his back. To think that one of the greatest secrets in history was buried somewhere out there… and he was so close now. If he reached out he could touch it. It was the lure of these artefacts, of course, their promise of power, but Rikkin had no such desire. The board had done him an injustice, had done his family an injustice for centuries for some perceived impurity of his origins. They couldn't have known better and maybe it made sense to their limited insight. The Assassins were a plague on them, thwarting them at every turn, refusing to be wiped out, refusing to give up no matter how much damage was inflicted on them. And then there was Alan Rikkin, unbeknownst to him, as a constant reminder of who they were fighting. If the board had had any sense, they would have made use of him instead of pushing him to the back ranks. After all, there was no denying the potential, the power and the leadership. He had certainly proven his worth often enough.

"Sir Alan?" his assistant asked for the second time.

He turned his head. "Yes?"

"We still can't reach Sergeant Ghazi."

"Interference?" he asked.

"No," she said. He heard the yapping of the keys as she typed. "It's on the decline. We _should _receive him."

"I see," Rikkin said and turned around. He smiled at her. "Send Thérèse with her squad, tell her to be careful. Begin phase three."

"Yes, Sir."

As she relied the command, Rikkin returned his attention to the wide view from his window. Night had almost conquered now, diffusing the distance, swallowing acres of forest up as if it was nothing, as if it wasn't even true, just an illusion conjured by a mind that thought itself awake.

They had been careful before, of course, Ghazi was a competent man who had fought Assassins before. One of the best, really, though Rikkin had never worked with him before. If Ghazi didn't answer it meant he had sprung the trap and it hadn't been enough. Rikkin had accepted this as a possibility in his planning. Mere numbers weren't going to be enough against such foes. Still, it could have worked and at the very least it had delivered a blow at his enemies, confused them, perhaps cost them some asset or other.

A moment of silence. Rikkin heard the rhythmic thunder of the helicopter engines as they took off. The perimeter of light went up around Tassamlé, banishing the darkness once again, making the thicket of the jungle transparent for the troops the helicopters were even now dropping all around them, scoring the forest. Somewhere out there, the remnants of Desmond Miles' Assassins were hidden, but the cover was drawn back and they had nowhere left to run.

* * *

The light seared into Desmond's eyes. He had just got used to the darkness and now he was blinded. Cursing, he stopped, fell back into the shadow of a house.

"What the fuck?" he began, squinting.

Ezio drew to a halt by his side. He had not regained his composure, not quite. He was simply deadly now, edged in light and dark, ready to spring, ready to kill at any given moment. He had not bothered to spare any more encouraging words for Desmond, just short directions and quick, sharp commands.

The helicopters thundered past above them.

Ezio drew back further into the dark, made to turn back. "The others are lost," he observed coldly.

"Are you serious?" Desmond asked. "What if…?"

Ezio snapped back around and Desmond tensed, instinct telling him to be ready for an attack that didn't come. Ezio only fixed Desmond with ancient eyes.

"Our life is made by the death of others, it's time you learned that. "

* * *

**References:**

_"I loved you, so I drew these tides of men into my hands and wrote my will across the sky in stars to earn you freedom." — The Seven Pillars of Wisdom, by T. E. Lawrence (very slightly adapted)_

_"Out life is made by the death of others." — Leonardo da Vinci_

Tulaytulah - Arab name for Toledo (I fangirl Moorish Spain, anyhow, it's such a fascinating piece of history)

**Italian:**

_Porca vacca_ - Dammit

_Chiudi il becco_ - Shut up

_Tutto è lecito_ - Everything is permitted (I expect us all to know this one; I'm only putting it here for completeness' sake)


	16. Eal þis Eorþan Gesteal Idel Weorþeð

_Beta (and the weeding-out of superfluous commas) by Stella._

* * *

**Chapter 16: Eal þis Eorþan Gesteal Idel Weorþeð**

The Assassin was alive. They had found him at the end of a trail of dead bodies waiting for them. Composed and cold he had offered neither resistance nor surrender, never speaking a word. Now he sat in the townhall's conference room with his left hand cuffed to the heavy table while his other wrist was bandaged. His injuries were comparatively minor, they riddled his body in bruises and cuts. His right wrist was sprained and the gauntlet had torn deep into his skin when it was ripped away. Large bruises along his torso indicated that his ribs might have been hurt though not fractured according to the doctor. Painful certainly, but nothing substantial, nothing endangering him. He didn't even show his exhaustion.

You would imagine an Assassin to be bristling with hidden weaponry, but they had found only a small knife, provisionally fixed between belt and pants. Perhaps he had had used them all up in the fight, left and lost them in the dead bodies of his victims.

Rikkin stopped by the door after he had let it fall closed behind him and surveyed the room. Armed knights were positioned in the corners, ordered to take down the Assassin the moment he tried something, _anything, _regardless who of their comrades might end up in the crossfire. For now, the Assassin seemed harmless enough. He had been stripped of the combat gear — its spidersilk was hopelessly mangled, durable as it was, Rikkin idly wondered whether he should send a report back to Material Research. Instead, they had given the Assassin a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and no boots to put him at an easy disadvantage should he break lose.

Rikkin walked forward and put the gauntlet on the table between them with a low, but audible chittering of metal and leather.

Altaïr looked up at the sound, watched Rikkin for a long moment. He said nothing.

"I must say that was an impressive feat," Rikkin said honestly. "I had calculated with high casualties, but not quite as high as that. Someone will be displeased about this, I'm sure of it."

Rikkin clasped his hands behind his back, followed the outline of the oval table with measured strides. His assistant remained by the door, a closed laptop in her hands in front of her. Her attention rested on the gauntlet before it returned to Rikkin and the captive Assassin.

Rikkin continued, "But for the time being, I'm not taking anyone's orders." He looked up and was faintly pleased that he had the Assassin's attention on him. Rikkin added, "You see, I went to talk with Warran Vidic in Guatemala City and he told me something interesting. Of course he didn't realise it. Vidic is a brilliant scientist, but his vision was always limited."

Rikkin stopped behind the doctor's shoulder, close enough to Altaïr to be within range of an attack, should one come.

"Is it true? Because, I have no interest in the end of the world. It does put something of a damper on my plans, after all."

The doctor glanced over his shoulder up at Rikkin, pulled the bandage tight. He looked at Altaïr cooly and said, "Nothing for the pain."

Rikkin nodded and the doctor withdrew. Unasked, one of the knights came forward and cuffed the Assassin's other hand to the table as well.

"No doubt you could free yourself," Rikkin said pleasantly. "In time."

Rikkin pulled out a chair and sat down. He didn't quite dare get any closer even though common sense insisted that, for the moment, there was no danger coming from the captive. Something about the Assassin's calm unnerved him, though. That was beyond mere composure and control. You may not show your fear, but you would still feel it, _anyone _would, in this place. Rikkin had wondered whether he had been too quick to believe in the re-emergence of two fabled Assassins from ages past, despite all their footage and Vidic's words. Of course the world was ripe with strange phenomena, Rikkin knew that well enough, but there were things that pushed even his tolerance. Yet, had they not already tested the reality of him? Part of Rikkin's mind wondered whether they should have given him a white hood, just to make the apparition true.

"I wonder, do you speak for the Assassins?"

Altaïr tilted his head and Rikkin was convinced he would never hear even one word from him. Rikkin had a brief vision of torture chambers of the past, used to grind grown men and women into pieces. How those times had changed. He could put Altaïr into the Animus and take what answers he needed. It would destroy his mind because the Animus wasn't meant to read memories directly. This wasn't what he wanted, however, far from it in fact.

"Do you speak for the Templars?" Altaïr asked. His voice was low, edged in scathing disdain that effortlessly ruffled Rikkin's pride.

"I represent the board in this matter," Rikkin said with a smile.

Altaïr looked away, shaking his head slowly. "You are a lackey."

Rikkin took a breath, telling himself to be calm. "Only at present. I aim to improve my lot in life, as it so happens. I have an offer for you, _if _you have the authority I need."

Altaïr's gaze flickered back to him, just that, not even a turn of the head. Rikkin was still pleased, at least the Assassin was talking with him.

"As I have said, I do not want the world to end and some of our recent data suggests we are close to the edge. If it is true, I wish to offer an alliance."

He settled back in his seat and watched Altaïr's face. He wondered how much resemblance there was to him, how much the Templars through the centuries looked at him and his forefathers and seen this man, the enemy, instead.

The Assassin's expression revealed nothing.

Rikkin stood up, needing the height, the ability to look down on the other man. "I do not lie," he said. "I wish a truce between us, at least until this is resolved." He arched his brows. "We can slaughter each other mindlessly again afterwards, if it makes you feel better."

The corner of Altaïr's mouth twitched upward fractionally; he moved his hands a little and the chains clattered. "Prove your good will, then," he challenged mildly.

* * *

Ezio picked a small apartment block in the outer circles of Tassamlé. The flat's shutters had been closed and they very carefully drew all the curtains before they switched on the light. It was hardly ideal, but they didn't know how many Templars there were and if they still had the numbers to sweep the entire town again. Altaïr had slaughtered quite a few of them and the offence to scour the jungle seemed to be a priority.

Desmond hovered in the doorway, taking in his surroundings. The kitchen was small and had clearly been left in a hurry. Cold tea on the table and plate of crumbling cookies. Ezio discarded the bulletproof vest over the back of a chair before he cleared the table unceremoniously, then began rifling through the cabinets.

Someone had pinned photographs to the wall beside the fridge and children had smeared the wall with colourful crayons. A pile of recent newspapers occupied a low table with someone's worn slippers beneath. Ezio was too large in this room, surreal in the dull shimmer of the spidersilk. Reality wavered around him, trying to fit him into this world.

They had no business wandering into someone's flat like this, abandoned or not. All of this, it belonged to someone, it was part of a life and it was bad enough that the Templars had forced them out.

Ezio clattered a pot on the stove and set water to boil.

"What do we do now?" Desmond asked the Assassin's back.

"You tell me," Ezio replied.

Desmond frowned. Ezio's tone was neutral, almost casual, but the warmth had yet to come back.

Taking a breath to buy himself a few precious seconds of time. "We make sure the Templars can't find us," Desmond began, felt like he was feeling himself along a dark path, half-seen, half-guessed and not-quite walked before. "We find our equipment and we try to get to Sianahk'ab before they do."

"They'll still follow us," Ezio pointed out. He crouched down before another cabinet, pulled out a few tin-cans and put them on the counter. "Ajvar or tomato?" he asked.

Desmond blinked. His first thought was _I can't eat_ closely followed by the realisation that he hadn't had much all day and with all that had happened, he had no time to even notice. He still felt faintly sick, thinking of all those dead, those dead _at his hands. _

"I don't care," he said. "And they'll need to know where we are going before they can follow us. I thought Altaïr said Sianahk'ab wasn't a Vault location, how would the Templar's know where to go?"

"There are many ruins around here," Ezio said. He went through the kitchen drawers until he found a can-opener. "And we are here, the conclusion is easy. Besides, even if it's not a Vault location, the Apple or another Piece of Eden could have revealed Sianahk'ab to them."

Desmond finally walked into the room. He could even smell them, those other people who should be here, who should be save here. He pulled a chair away from the table and sat down, buried his face in his hands and suppressed groan.

"We can't fight them all," Desmond said. "Who knows how many more there are? And backup's on the way, no doubt."

"_If _they could call for it," Ezio pointed. "But you are right, _we_ won't fight them."

Desmond stared at Ezio through his fingers. The Assassin had turned around, leaned at the counter beside two boiling pots and looked back at Desmond from his dark eyes.

"Who will fight them?" Desmond asked.

Ezio walked forward, pulled himself a chair. "We'll take the day tomorrow, see what we can learn about the Templars and procure some equipment from them. You take a car for Sianahk'ab and I stay behind to make sure no one follows you."

"Wouldn't it make more sense to try and free the others?" Desmond asked.

"There is no strength in numbers," Ezio countered derisively. "Besides, they'll be very well guarded and I don't want to risk losing you."

He got up again, turned back to his cooking. "You see, the old man has one thing right. You need to go to Sianahk'ab."

"What do I do when I get there?" Desmond asked. "I mean, this could all be one huge dead-end. What then? All this for nothing?"

Stirring the sauce, Ezio didn't bother looking at Desmond. "I doubt it is," he said. "So far it all happened more or less the way we expected. The Prophet appeared. Desmond appeared. If Altaïr says he's found the Temple at Sianahk'ab, I believe him."

"Still doesn't have to mean anything," Desmond insisted.

Ezio shook his head. Steam rose from the sink when Ezio emptied the pot through a sieve. He looked over his shoulder, twisted one hand and gestured with a cooking spoon. "Dishes, cutlery, wine on the fridge."

Desmond stared up. A few bottles were lined up on the fridge. Darkly green and red bottles, labelled in gold or silver, some with a crest embossed in the glass. Desmond knew a little about wines and the thought of the rich scent and taste tore him momentarily from his depression. Then he remembered where he was, "That really a good idea?" he asked.

Ezio put down sauce and noodles in the middle of the table. "Dinner with no wine is no dinner at all."

So perhaps there was some joke here about the Italian making pasta and the punchline would be that it wasn't even especially good unless it was Desmond's fault and _everything_ would have tasted like ashes. He forced down a forkful and stared at the wine in his glass. It was not as dark as he had feared it would be, but still red verging into purple. It didn't look anything like blood and it smelled faintly of fruit and spice.

"That isn't much of a plan," Desmond said finally.

"It's not," Ezio agreed. "We are not working with a surplus of resources here. I can handle this, the rest is up to you."

Desmond chewed hard on the noodles, struggling with the taste of ashes that abraded his tongue. He picked up the glass and gulped down half of it. "That trap," he began and stared at Ezio hard. "Did you know it was there?"

"No," he answered, then returned Desmond's gaze. "But it was a possibility. The Templars have guessed our direction well enough, after all. If we had been in contact with headquarters I'd say there is a traitor at work. But we haven't, so they must have another source."

"What?" Desmond said. "But Assassins…"

Ezio smiled a little, an expression that didn't reach his eyes. "Are human," he finished. "Susceptible to money or threats or even a few well-placed arguments, especially in a war that's going badly."

Desmond could only stare. It hadn't occurred to him, not in any serious fashion. The Assassins, _his _Assassins, would never abandon the cause, would never desert him. He'd trained them, saved them from the streets. He put the steel in their hands and they… Desmond shook his head. _He _hadn't done any of this. Ezio had when he rebuilt the order in Rome and Altaïr had when he pulled it from the brink after Al'Mualim's death.

"Have you not wondered why no one knew about Altaïr? About me?" Ezio asked.

"Altaïr said the Templars would have hunted you down," Desmond said, tonelessly.

"We would not have been safe staying with the order. We did what we could, worked from the shadows, but we were not always successful. And then it was too late."

"Why didn't you stand up then?" Desmond asked. Knowing he sounded like a boy pleading with his parents to make the story have a happy ending after all. So now the decomposition of the world had reached another stage, taking apart first Altaïr and Ezio; and now the Assassins were falling. If those were all gone, what would he do? In the end, would there be nothing left of the world but disjected fragments of minds in his head?

"What would have happened?" Ezio asked back. "If I'd come forward, or Altaïr? At best, they'd have slain us for frauds or dangerous lunatics."

Desmond looked down onto his plate, still mostly full while his glass was empty. He needed to eat, he told himself. He would need the energy come morning.

"At worst," Ezio continued softly. "We would have torn down what remained of the brotherhood. Destroyed it, because there was nothing left worth saving, ripped out all of its rotten core. I know that's what I would have done. But then, if we'd done _that _you'd have nothing at all."

Desmond felt the slow coil of Ezio's anger, _old _anger mixed with the new, frustration built up over centuries and not ever allowed to spent itself.

"Eat," Ezio told him. "Then go to sleep, I'll keep watch."

Torn back into reality, away from whatever odd connection he imagined to possess with Ezio as he was now, Desmond snapped his head back and breathed deeply a few times, the scent of wine and tomato pushing back the memory of gore and death.

"I don't know what's going to happen to me when I sleep," Desmond said honestly.

Ezio merely nodded. "But we know what will if you don't."

Desmond wished Ezio would lie, would tell him it was going to be fine in the end, because he would believe him, against better judgement and knowledge and instinct, despite all the voices in his head that were so attuned to danger. Ezio, however, was not compassionate enough to lie.

* * *

The roof of the house was flat and had served its inhabitants where there was no real garden to have. Half of it was covered by plant pots, arrayed on benches and the ground, some of them filled with flowers, others with vegetables. Sunshades had been put up against the glare from above and it didn't take Ezio long to rearrange them to hide his presence on the roof from almost any angle. There was also a small, wooden garden pavilion, the kind you bought in a DIY store and put together yourself. From here, the view over Tassamlé was nearly unimpeded. He could see the street up and down in both directions until it curved out of sight. Helicopters still circled above the town, their searchlights passing over the houses, but they couldn't pick him out from above. Heat-sensors could be a problem, but if they still worked, the Templars would be here by now. Tassamlé didn't have any cellphone coverage, even if it still worked.

The helicopter turned away, thundered in the distance as it finished its patrol and then there was silence again.

It was difficult to remember Monteriggioni. He had returned to it only a few years ago, like a dare to see if he could handle it only to find that there was almost nothing at all. It hadn't changed as much as he had hoped, preserved as part of Italy's cultural heritage, but lifeless in its stasis. He could walk those streets with the other tourists and it barely seemed to make a difference. It was history, to him as well as them.

He remembered the day Altaïr had come well enough, though. It was the moment everything changed and he had thought he already had enough of those in his life. It had been one of those long, slow Sunday evenings in summer and he had been half-drunk on expensive wine and Angelina's smile. And then Altaïr had walked into the villa, just like that, dressed like a mercenary in black leather with Tuscan dust clinging to his boots.

Maybe he really had wanted Altaïr dead in those early, lonely years. He would have given everything just to put a blade past Altaïr's ribs and turn the knife, once, for every minute of suffering. But Altaïr had always been too fast to be caught, too old to be tricked and far too similar to be second-guessed.

Besides, Ezio was no fool, not any longer. He understood enough to find solace in the knowledge that there was a point to all of this that he could find meaning in it, if he tried hard enough. There were, after all, things he still believed in, things he was willing to fight and die for, so when Altaïr asked him instead to _live _for them, he couldn't refuse. Except, of course, Altaïr had never asked and now neither of them would ever know what he would have done.

He scanned the streets in all directions, empty in the night. He closed his eyes when he lit his cigarette and took a drag. He leaned back his head to stare at the sky past the pavilion's roof.

* * *

Desmond eyed the couch warily as if he expected it to snap at him for his insolence at barging into someone else's living room like this. There was just no way Desmond was going to take a bed. It'd be too wrong, too strange and he was afraid enough of sleeping anyhow. Warmth lingered within the walls of the house and he didn't need a blanket. He pulled himself free from the spidersilk shirt and its infernal magnetic clasps, pulled off his boots and let himself fall face first onto the couch in a moment of relief.

He lay there a while until he finally got too little air and at least turned his head to stare at the cushion in front of him. There was silence outside and inside his head. He wondered if the wine had something to do with it. Did that even make sense? If alcohol lowered your inhibitions, shouldn't that make the Bleeding Effect worse? Instead his senses felt dulled, alleviating the razor to which they had been pushed. He hadn't noticed while it happened how the world had shifted focus, how his sight seemed to have sharpened, how acute his hearing had become, how his muscles and reflexes had been constantly pulled tight, ready at any moment to jump into action.

Only now, so incredibly tired, he felt it. The Assassins were no longer just in his head, they had moved on, they inhabited his body now, as unwelcome a visitor as he was in this stranger's house.

He was afraid of sleep. Monsters lurked in his dreams, be they friend or foe, they all terrified him just the same. Ezio had said they could have walked away from this, but try as he might, Desmond couldn't find the moment when he might have done that. After Lucy freed him from Abstergo? After Altaïr appeared to drag them all the way across America and into the jungle? Wouldn't the Templars just have hunted him down again? And what about the other Assassins; those still alive somewhere out there in the world?

The coming of Desmond had been prophesied to them after all, he thought and sneered. He rolled onto his back and threw one arm across his eyes. He could almost pity them, Altaïr and Ezio and those sacrifices they had made — willingly and otherwise. All the Assassins, tethering on the edge, too afraid to fall and too tired to hold on. So many, and all of them waiting for one man to deliver them. Seriously, what book had they been reading this entire time?

Sleep crept up on him, hidden in the shadows and the silence. The wine had wrapped his senses into softness and Ezio was keeping watch. Sleep came and slammed him into the dream before he had time to be afraid.

He is a traveller in the jungle, a wayfarer on his own, a wanderer who thinks he is losing his way. He is tired. He has come so far, he has walked the world. He has seen it all, as it spirals into chaos and because he has a mission, a duty, he could not stop, not once to help.

The jungle is no longer wild around him. The city spreads for many miles in all directions. In the outer reaches, the houses stand far apart, large mansions nestle within the jungle green, paved roads encircle parks with high trees and he hears a waterfall whisper in the distance. He is tired and he wants to go home, but he knows his home is already gone. The Sun Cycle has already began, has burned away the place of his birth, the place where he would have been buried. He has moved so fast, he has fought so hard, only to get to this place, knowing all the while that he will be too late. All of this, it will go, it will fall into dust and ruin. He has walked the world merely for a hope, for a promise.

Before all of this, he has been a warrior. He has always thought they should have send a scholar on this journey, someone who can reason with himself and not lose his track, but he had to bloody his weapons too often for the thought to hold. A scholar would be dead long since and even a fighter less skilled then him would have fallen by the wayside ages ago.

Sianahk'ab has changed. It is already forgetting what it was meant to be. Even if the fires do not come, nothing that is true is forever. He knows that. He believes he has sworn an oath once, but it was so long ago. The people he passes, they stare at him wide-eyed as if he is an alien and not a man. A group of children edge closer, snatch at his coat and touch the smooth material. He knows it looks like leather to them, but it is nothing so crude. It is still white and unblemished, after such a long time. He glances at the children and they scurry away, keeping watch from a distance.

He reaches the central square of the city. In the beginning of his journey, he was received with parades, showered with gifts. His arrival had been cause for celebration. Now it was changed, different. Superstition had preceded him. Perhaps they had heard of the men he had left dead in his path, perhaps they cannot imagine one man of such ability. Do they see a demon now, merely clothed in the skins of a man, bringing false promises of salvation while he waits for a moment to spring his blade?

The square is empty, but he knows the impression is a lie. They are there, all around him, slings and spears and arrows trained at him. He will have to fight again. He wants nothing more than to spread out his arms, welcome this death for the rest it would finally bring. But his journey isn't done yet, he cannot rest before it is and there is still a gaping ocean he needs to cross.

He draws to a stop, turns in a small circle on the heel of one black-booted foot. He pushes his hood back from his face. Let them see him, for the first and the last time.

"What are you waiting for?" he calls in challenge. He refuses to show the weariness he feels. There are still the remnants of his pride, held close to who he has become. He remembers being arrogant once, powerful, a graceful killer, lethal beyond compare.

He is nothing but a shell now, but duty binds him into the role. He has always been stubborn, too, perhaps it is the only trait he still retains.

They fall on him in numbers, eager to tear him apart, but they barely reach him. His sword arcs like lighting and there are blades by his wrists; privately, he has always thought of them as his talons. But there are many and he is so empty, there comes a moment when he slips, just once. An obsidian blade slices past his face, cuts open his lips. He bares his teeth in a feral grin, tasting the blood.

Millennia away from this moment, though not so far away in space, Desmond opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. A hand went to his mouth, traced the scar there and he was surprised at the lack of pain, when it had been a fresh wound only a moment ago. He felt the echo of loneliness coming to him from the past, but he barely needed it. He wanted to go home, too, and just like this other, he no longer knew where home was. The desert called him and there was the lure of Italy with the magical Tuscan light he longed for. Neither of which was his own. He had no home, not since he had run away. It had been the price and he had been willing to pay it once.

He sat up slowly, expecting more vertigo, but he felt better than he had in a long while. Still frazzled at the edges, his self floundering, lost for direction. Maybe there was a steel core in him after all, revealed as everything else was peeled away, a determination handed down through the generations; like a scar on his lips that made no sense at all.

It was still dark outside, still silent. Desmond got up, pulled on the spidersilk shirt again and found his boots to make his way to the roof.

Ezio lounged at the back of the roof, on the balustrade of a garden pavilion, his back pressed against a beam. A tiny red light indicated the cigarette in his mouth. Desmond _knew _he had made no noise coming here, he knew and still Ezio had sensed him, turned his head to look at him. The night was too deep to make out anything but his black shape.

Desmond came forward. "I _did_ sleep," he said defensively before Ezio had the chance to berate him. "But you have to rest, too. I'll keep watch until morning."

He expected Ezio to argue. Instead, the Assassin slipped from his seat, stubbed out the cigarette.

"Very well," he said. He made to pass him by, but Desmond gripped him by the arm and held him. "About Altaïr…" he began.

Ezio was motionless in his hand, didn't even turn his head. "Rookie," he said slowly and Desmond didn't know whether there was threat or not. "This is between him and me. It does not concern you."

Desmond closed his eyes and breathed. He wished things would be easy for once in his life. He said, "Doesn't it?"

"Him and me," Ezio repeated, a little louder. "If you can't watch, look the other way. But don't get between us."

Desmond couldn't push him for many reasons. Not least of all because Ezio was _dangerous_ and because Desmond understood him, or thought he did. Desmond let go of Ezio's arm.

"I'm sorry," he said. _Sorry that this happened to you, sorry I force you to confront it, sorry I can never take it all back…_

Ezio shifted his stance and allowed the subtle aura of danger to fade. "We will not slaughter each other any time soon, rookie, there are more pressing matters now," Ezio said. He was making an effort, Desmond could tell. "We are all murderers and whores and thieves. I have no moral high ground to stand on."

He walked away, just like that and gave Desmond no space to force an argument or a revelation. He made no promise, either, about the new war he had just postponed.

* * *

The Templars had commandeered the small police station for their purposes. What police officers there had been were paid off or scared away if they hadn't been in the Templars' pockets all along. Templar knights guarded the cells now, with Lucy, Shaun and Rebecca in adjoining cells.

Rebecca groaned. "And to think I owe them my life…"

"Makes you just _wonder _why they want us alive and well, doesn't it?" Shaun asked. He had rolled onto his back and had his legs crossed up against the wall in an effort to find something of a comfortable position on the bunk-bed's thin mattress.

"Nah," Rebecca said. "Don't want to know."

"What happens next?" Shaun asked.

Lucy stirred where she had her head pressed against the bars. "You are a smart man, Shaun," she said with a tired effort at humour. "Of course we get out of here, save the day, the usual."

Silence followed her words and after a moment, she sighed. The cells weren't terribly secure. They were old, the locks well-cared but hardly high-tech. Breaking out of here wasn't impossible, but it would take some time and they needed to have a working plan as to what to do afterwards.

Rebecca asked, "Do you think they have Desmond?"

"No idea," Lucy said honestly. "But probably not. They got Altaïr because they threw most of their knights at him. I doubt they have the same number to burn against Ezio, especially now that he's prepared."

Shaun chuckled. "You know, it's really a pity we don't have a few more of those legendary Assassins, they seem to be quite effective."

There was noise from the outside, the rattling of a heavy keychain and then a woman's voice issuing a sharp order. The door to the cell block opened and a small woman walked in a few steps. She was neatly dressed, a business woman in a pantsuit rather than a Templar Knight in combat gear.

She was vaguely familiar to Lucy, who got to her feet and stepped as close as she could.

The woman waited until the door had fallen closed behind her. She startled a little at the sound.

"You are Rikkin's assistant," Lucy said. "Meghan, isn't it?"

She nodded tensely. She looked Shaun and Rebecca over, both of who had drawn forward. Rebecca was still pale from the loss of blood, but she'd be damned if she was going to play the invalid just because of some flesh-wound.

Meghan walked to Lucy's cell, fixed her with wide, determined eyes. "You are Assassins," Meghan said. "Tell me, is it true?"

"Is what true?" Lucy asked, frowning.

"Are we dying? Will the world end? I've been tracking all this information for Sir Alan. The satellite launch you stunted when you took Seventeen, that was meant to help. But now we can't, without Desmond the PODs mean nothing. You took away our means and the solar flares are getting worse while the magnetic field weakens every minute." She fidgeted on her feet, wary like a rabbit unsure in which direction to flee. She stared at Lucy without blinking. "Can you do this?"

"Yes," Lucy said. "We can. We will. I swear."

Meghan looked away, still hesitating. "Altaïr," she said. "He is real." Wonder passed through her voice and took away her anxiety for a moment, only to let it snap back like whiplash. "You won't be able to get to him, he is too well guarded. But I will try. Don't come for him, you'd never make it. Do what you must. _Please."_

She pushed a key into Lucy's hand through the bars. "Please," she begged again. "Give me a little time. A few minutes. If Sir Alan suspects me, he'll kill me."

Lucy nodded and Meghan hurried away after another quick glance over the others. The door fell closed behind her with a soft echo through the cells.

"Could be another trap," Shaun said. "Eagle vision sure would have come in handy."

Lucy shrugged, worked the key into her handcuffs. "You know what they say about gift horses."

"Take a damn good look into their mouths?" Shaun asked dryly.

Lucy laughed a little. "No, the other one."

"Caution, Greeks inside?"

She laughed again. The handcuffs clattered to the floor. "In a way, come to think of it. If it's a trap, they are not making a good job of it. We've been toyed with for too long. They put four Assassins into their midst, it's time they found out what that means."

* * *

_Eal þis eorþan gesteal idel weorþeð (All the foundation of this world turns to waste) — The Wanderer (Old English poem; translation found online)_

* * *

**Author's Note:** You may have noticed that this chapter hasn't been beta-read. It is, in fact, still with the beta and expected back soon-ish. However, I want to get back to a posting schedule in the vague hope to finish this before summer is over and I'll have considerably less time to invest (never mind the energy).

I realise Desmond's dream is vaguely reminiscent of the Revelations trailer we all know and love. Thusly, please note that its entirely unconnected to (although possibly subconsciously inspired by) said trailer.

I find this chapter weak, but I don't know exactly where I'm going wrong. Because of this, feedback is even more appreciated than usual.


	17. Megalopsuchia

**Author's Note: **I apologise for any scientific errors. I'm fairly certain DNA wouldn't quite work the way I'm pretending here. On the other hand, we are taking about a canon where DNA stores memories...

* * *

**Chapter 17: Megalopsuchia**

For every Templar, the hidden blades of the Assassins were, at least partially, the stuff of nightmares. Something about the secrecy of them, how you so rarely ever saw them. They might be antiquated weapons in the modern world, but they had never lost their power in the consciousness. Even today, most Assassins would still prefer to kill a target using the sleek blade. There _was _something fascinating about the weapon, Rikkin had always understood that. The Assassins were not foolishly nostalgic about it, as some members of the board liked to think, the Assassins understood the value of this. These were not weapons, as such, they were talons and fangs, extension of the body rather than a tool.

They had not cleaned this blade after taking it away from the Assassin. Blood crusted it, soiling the tough, smooth leather of the gauntlet. The metal glowed dully, even now, merciless silver-steel in Rikkin's unblinking gaze.

The Assassin's easy arrogance still unnerved Rikkin more than he cared to admit. _Of course _they both had known he would never risk uncuffing the man, not after he had seemingly effortlessly slaughtered platoons of experienced knights, better equipped and better prepared than him. They were still sorting through the casualties. Many had died by this very blade. No, Rikkin understood the tactics well enough, but he could not let that man go, an Assassin and so very dangerous. Perhaps he would be more malleable in a few hours, when the exhaustion of the fight had finally caught up with him, when the adrenaline in his system no longer dulled the pain from his wounds.

A knock on the door pulled him from his contemplation.

"Come in," he called.

The door opened and his assistant walked in. She had an oddly haunted look about her, hectic dots on her pale face. She was holding a pile of paper in front of her.

"I'm sorry for the delay, Sir," she said. "The lab has problems with their computers and these are only preliminary results. Professor Higgs really wants to stress that point. It's all I could do to prevent him from withholding these."

Rikkin made a dismissive gesture. "Higgs is an obsessive perfectionist. We don't have the time for a full test. Sit down, let me hear it."

She hesitated for a moment, glancing around. Her hands were shaking as she put the papers down and went to retrieve a chair. Rikkin's gaze resting on her didn't seem to be helping. She bumped her knee against the desk and winced.

Rikkin waited, showing nothing of his thoughts on his face. Meghan had worked for him for years. She was an efficient organiser, clever enough to understand the information she was charged with sifting through. No doubt she understood Higgs' explanations better than Rikkin himself would have bothered. She worked well with the knights, too, although their sometimes crude demeanour should have turned her off. She had never been in the field herself, though. She had never faced the stress of her potential death. It would be a pity if she chose this time to fall apart on him, really.

"We have checked the captive's DNA and compared the results with data we have from Subjects Six- and Seventeen," she glanced up briefly, hesitating again. Technically, she was not supposed to know about the identity of Subject Sixteen, but he hardly minded. In its way, it was merely a testament as to how good she was at her job.

"Go on," he prompted.

She cleared her throat, escaped his gaze by staring down on the paper in her hand. She said, "We also compared the result with your own DNA, as you requested."

She fell silent again, eyes flickering up and down on the paper. "The DNA markers all indicate a blood-relation between all subjects. Y-DNA mutates quickly between generations, but the computer models don't work reliably right now, so we cannot be sure whether there is merely a distant relation or whether the captive…." she stopped for a moment, studied Rikkin's face. "Well, is an ancestor of all other subjects."

"He's real, then," Rikkin concluded. It wasn't exactly a surprise. He had argued for this with the board ever since he had seen the video captures from New York and Guatemala City. There was the man who had thrown Vidic from the roof at the airport and if there was any question about skill, it had been answered a mere handful of hours ago.

Meghan was looking at him silently, eyes still too open, not making a very good job of covering her sense of wonder. She was holding herself stiffly, tense enough she might shatter at any moment, but Rikkin was barely paying attention. The gauntlet seemed to b calling to him. He couldn't help but wonder if he wasn't somehow also entitled to this, to the power it held. Perhaps he could… He stopped himself before he even finished the thought.

He picked up the gauntlet. "Have that cleaned," he said. "How is our access to the database?"

She reached for the gauntlet, long delicate fingers, trying not to hold it too tightly. Leather whispered at her touch. "Shaky, I'm afraid. But I have downloaded copies of many files I thought we might need. Everything we have about Altaïr's is among them, if that is what you wanted."

Rikkin nodded. "Indeed, good work." He gave her a distracted smile. "You haven't gotten any sleep all night, have you?"

"No, Sir."

"Find some quiet room, then, I won't need you."

She nodded. "Yes, Sir, thank you."

He paid no attention as she hurried out, already turned to his computer to retrieve the files he needed.

It was, he thought not so much later, almost pitiful what the great and mighty Templars had collected about one of the most prestigious leaders the Assassins had ever had. Rikkin cursed under his breath, flipping through the files. Back when the Apple had first been discovered and the nine had fallen prey to Al'Mualim's machinations, they knew of Altaïr's involvement only through a note made by King Richard's scribe. A man in white, he had written, who walked into the innermost circle of the King's camp as if there weren't two armies all around them, ready for battle. A man with robes bloodied by Crusader and Saracen alike and his face hidden in the shadows of his hood, who had boasted about having slain the other eight and who had come to claim Robert de Sable's life as well. They had heard of Al'Mualim's death only later, through slow-travelling rumour and so very little about his successor.

Altaïr, or some sort of projected idea of him, kept appearing in Templar reports everywhere, too numerous to have been the same man, too far apart to allow even him to be in two places — unless you remembered that he had held the Apple at the time, though Rikkin thought it far more likely that he was looking at delusions borne of fear. A hundred years, two-hundred, the man in white had his place in Templar imagination. Doubtlessly others had taken his place, other Assassins had hunted Templars through the centuries, but their clandestine ways easily fostered the creation of the Templars very own boogeyman.

They had set a trap for Altaïr, once, not long after he had slain Al'Mualim and claimed the Apple for himself. With the Crusade ended, they couldn't march back to Masyaf to reclaim the treasure with force, but it almost seemed as if the Apple had barely even mattered: It was the man the Templars needed to be gone.

And yet, and yet there was more history here than the meagre file suggested. Rikkin's family had to have come from somewhere, _something _that had tied him to the Assassins in ways far above simple animosity. There had been a trap once and a woman used as bait for a phantom...

Rikkin leaned forward, face into the harsh blue glow of the screen. Maybe there was something he could use after all.

* * *

The sky was so wide above Desmond. Endless in its soft dark blue, sprinkled with stars like diamonds. He remembered nights like this, precious gifts in a world that had been spinning wildly out of control for all the millennia he could think back. One night, he had laid on the roof of the Bureau in Jerusalem for the slightly cooler air it offered, when it was far too hot to sleep inside. But the sky had been so beautiful, so wide and breathtaking, he had found no sleep at all. He had not wanted to close his eyes to this view, to this illusion that maybe there was — not a god out there, he seemed to have always known better than to fall for such old women's tales — but there was still _hope _and _meaning_ and not just mindless slaughter and an eternal war fought for the souls of all of humanity.

He thought _Al-khailu wa 'l-lailu wal-baidāʾu taʿrifunī _and something fell into place.

A sliver of silver draw itself above the jungle, sharp like the edge of a blade. Desmond took a deep breath, tasting the scent of damp jungle, cool night air cleansing his head. He stood up, leaned over the edge of the building to make sure the street was still clear. The lure was there, suddenly, calling him, to leap over the edge and into nothingness. Instead, he pushed himself away and found his way back to the flat.

Ezio did not wake at Desmond's approach. The Assassin had picked the couch, like Desmond had, though whether for the same reasons was beyond Desmond to predict. Ezio played fast and loose with morals and propriety. Society had kicked him out of its ranks very long ago, he was bound only by the rules he chose.

From the doorway, Desmond marvelled for a moment at Ezio sleeping so deeply he had not noticed an intruder. Desmond had made no effort to be silent and they were in the middle of enemy territory. Desmond knew how sharp the man's senses were. How much trust did he place in Desmond when he allowed himself to be become this vulnerable? Desmond watched him for a moment, waiting for a break in the quiet rhythm of Ezio's breathing, for a tensing in the muscles of his back, a subtle shift in the drape of his arms and legs over the edge of the couch. When nothing happened, Desmond felt himself pushed back into himself, becoming aware of how alien he felt inside his own skin, acutely aware suddenly of his lack of muscle and strength and flexibility. His mind would move at speeds his body could never follow. It was a wonder he could walk without stumbling, so accustomed to another body's balance and coordination. Doubtlessly, he was being forced into shape, but there was a long way to go, just memories and heredity weren't going to be enough.

Desmond turned away and went to the kitchen. A piece of paper lay on the table and Desmond stopped to read, traced the familiar sweep of Ezio's handwriting, barely altered in all the centuries since his youth. It was a list of what he'd need for a trip into the jungle, including the most likely places to get some of them in Tassamlé. Ezio must have done it before going to sleep, reacting to their time slowly ticking away. A calendar was pinned to the wall, beside the photographs that had shaken Desmond so and December wasn't far anymore.

Morning came quickly, wedged itself through cracks in the shutters, pushing warmth into the flat. Desmond looked around the small kitchen, feeling again like an intruder, a barbarian walking the streets of Rome with fire and sword.

He found no coffee, so instead settled for making tea, as strong as he could manage and fending off the sense of homeliness it created. Who had done that? The memory of a face flitted past his inner eye, but was gone before he remembered her name.

"Here's a bit of advice," Ezio said from the doorway, stretching his arms out over his head, making his neck crack. "If you are sleeping somewhere uncomfortable, have someone pillowy there with you."

Desmond said nothing, he had had some time to think, after all. "Ezio," Desmond said too calmly. "We are not leaving the others to die."

He saw Ezio lower his hands, lean with one bare shoulder against the doorway and relax, tilt his head. His voice lowered to Desmond's own tone. "They could be already dead for all we know."

Desmond lifted his gaze, stared at Ezio hard. "Then we make sure," he said. Remembered instinct told Desmond well enough that Ezio was nowhere near as calm as he appeared. Tension ran the length of his body and the easy humour of a moment ago had blown away to be replaced by much colder calculation.

"I'm not leaving them," Desmond reiterated, still staring at Ezio without blinking. "I've lost enough," Desmond said, heard the calm fall away from his voice with every word. "I've been shoved around. I've been used. I've been told what the fuck I'm to do, where to go. You point at some random guy and I kill him like I'm one of your stupid little recruits back in Rome. And. I. Am._ Not!" _

He wanted to slam his fist on the table, but didn't think he'd stop before the wood splintered. So he held himself still instead, staring at Ezio as if daring him to try and reassert his dominance. It was enough, his life would damn well belong to himself again, what was left of him, what could still be saved. The thought of leaving the others to die in cold blood was unbearable to him, this was not a man he wanted to be or ever to become.

Part of Desmond wondered briefly how quickly Ezio could kill him, in how many different ways and without breaking a sweat or sparing a second thought. He _had _just issued a challenge at the other Assassin, had put himself up as a rival, a contender to leadership. He almost expected Ezio to spring, do something, _anything, _to prove his authority.

Instead, the tension nearly vanished again from Ezio. He pulled away from the doorway and walked into the room, seemingly entirely unaffected. He even smiled slightly. "So, you've found your balls, I was beginning to fear for the family line," he observed conversationally. "Very well, let's hear your plan."

Time stuttered to another halt, drew a screeching curve and jostled Desmond from every expectation he might have had of how this encounter might go, of how it might end if he really forced this. He didn't even know where the anger had come from, how he could have been forced into it from one moment to the next. He had been making tea, he had felt homesick and then it all had flipped,

Desmond glowered at Ezio. "I don't _have _a plan," he said, deflating just a little. All he knew was that he was drawing the line and all the rest be damned. He was not Altaïr — it was important to remind himself of these things, every now and then — he wasn't willing to make sacrifices like this. He wasn't going to wreak havoc on the life of everyone who might get in his way, or who might be useful. Neither was he Ezio. And he wasn't Joseph either, or Ammar, or that strange wayfarer from his dreams, any of all those people who had walked this world before him.

Ezio pulled a chair back, let it scrape over the floor with an ugly screech. Desmond almost jumped to his feet, snapping his attention back at Ezio, back from where it seemed to have drifted off into the past.

"In that case," Ezio said slowly. "You work through our little shopping list while I pay the Templars a visit, see what can be done."

"I…" Desmond began an objection, but Ezio lifted a hand to silence him.

"Rookie, you have a point," Ezio said and this time his gaze was harder than Desmond could ever hope to match. "I hear you. We do it your way, but let's not get the priorities backward. Sianahk'ab is still our goal and we need to get you there."

Desmond said nothing, stared at the table in front of him, willing it not to shift away from him. It transformed, other place superimposed over the room, all clambering forward. The message was clear enough. He had pushed Ezio as far as Ezio would let himself be pushed. And yet, Desmond knew he wasn't going to let it be.

"Promise me," Desmond said. "You'll do your best to help them?"

When Ezio made no answer, Desmond forced his gaze away from the table and at the Assassin. Ezio's expression had changed, subtly so but nevertheless. He had let it soften just a little. "It matters too much to you."

"Not just _me, _Ezio," Desmond said. A snarl was crawling back up his throat, clawing at him. It was all of them, there in his head, who had fought so hard for so long. None of them understood, it seemed, this need to make an end, to stop the hurting and the dying. The tally had been building for such a long time and Desmond felt every single loss, every single wound inflicted on his heart and soul. It was enough, it had gone on for too long. Some sacrifices were too great, even for the survival of the world and this was the end of the line.

* * *

The police station was a small, two-story building, facing the same square as the town-hall. It had been less hurriedly deserted as the rest of the town, suggesting some kind of arrangement made with Templars, or at least Templar money. Lucy found she couldn't blame those men. She had fought the Templars all her life, she had pretended to be a Templar for years. There were opponents normal people were not meant to face.

Meghan had brought more than a key, more than a chance for freedom and the opportunity to leap back into the fray. Meghan had also said, although unknowing what it would mean to the Assassins, that Altaïr was still alive against all the odds. That revelation was an important one, something to which Lucy could cling out here in the open water. She had no plans left, no idea or inspiration to guide her. Nothing she had ever learned, all the years of training, had prepared her for this.

The waited for a while before breaking out, not only because Meghan deserved her own fighting chance, but because they still did not know where to go once they were free. It was unlikely they could track Ezio and Desmond in Tassamlé. Lucy knew she was good, but Ezio was better and she didn't know what capacities Desmond had developed. No, finding them was not an option.

Four Templars had been detailed to watch over them, alert, but overtired, as if they hadn't had a pause in a long while. The Templars made a lot noise, with their trucks and helicopters, but maybe they were spread thinner than it appeared. How many of them had been slaughtered by Altaïr? How many _really _still stood against them?

The ground floor of the station was an open office, separated from the public by a counter and metal mesh. It had been left rather tidily, very little lose paper and the only thing out of order were the paper-cups used by the Templars. There was no sight of their hidden blades, they must be stored elsewhere and Lucy fought a little with the thought of their loss.

Lucy stopped, scanned the room to make sure there were no surprises waiting to spring.

"Shaun was right," she said.

"Of course I am," Shaun said from behind her. "What about?"

She looked back at him, but her attention was caught by Rebecca, who was still too pale and looked incredibly tired and determined. She should be in a bed, not running around in a war-zone.

"Rebecca, you said you could hack the Templar network?"

Rebecca leaned her hip against the desk. She stood at an odd angle, trying to put alleviate the wound. "I can hack everything. I need direct access to them, though. Wireless will get us nowhere."

She frowned at Lucy, "What are you thinking?"

Lucy took a breath, turned away from them both. "There are fewer Templars here than I'd thought, probably because they suffered such losses taking Altaïr, but there will be reinforcements. When that happens, they can lock down this jungle for miles in all directions and we'll never get out."

"So far, so obvious," Shaun remarked dryly.

Lucy smiled a little. "If we hook into their system, we could contact headquarters, right? The other cells."

"Probably," Rebecca said. "But I'm not sure how bad the situation is, whether they are even listening."

Lucy nodded, turned to face them once more. "I know. That's why we'll make it public. This is Abstergo. They control almost every satellite network, radio, TV, internet. We can reach _everyone. _Send out a call to arms to every Assassin in the world. Everyone who is still alive. This is the moment to fight back. We attack them on all fronts and hope that reinforcements will not come."

"Public?" Shaun asked softly.

She meet his gaze bright-eyed. "That's the only way to make sure we reach as many as possible."

A slow grin was working itself on his face. He understood what she was doing, the size of it, the implications. There would be no turning back from this.

"I somehow don't think you have the authority for that," Shaun remarked.

"No, I don't," Lucy knew it was hysteria in her expression, but she had nothing left with which to care. "But last I heard, everything was permitted, wasn't it?"

Rebecca was nodding. "I can do it, I think. I need a few things. We won't be just hacking the network, we'll hijack it."

There was mist outside, scattering the morning light, obscuring rather than revealing. It wouldn't last, would shield them from prying eyes only for a few short minutes, but it was enough to find an alley, running around the back of the houses that flanked the square. There was cover, of a sort, trashcans and boxes and deep doorways. The Assassins moved in files, silent as shadows.

Lucy pressed her back to the wall, edged forward and she could peer around the corner.

"Two," she whispered to the others. Two Templars guarded the fire-exit, guns ready and alert.

"Plan?" Shaun asked. "Because we can't well shoot them, and any distraction we might attempt is just going to backfire."

Lucy eyed him, then Rebecca who wasn't looking too good. Her instincts said to be careful, everything she had ever learned told her to take the safer path, find another route, but they had circled the town-hall twice already, looking for an easier way in. It was dangerous staying out here, they had to dodge patrols and guards at every turn and doubtless their escape would be noticed any moment now. At the same time, Lucy was tired, exhausted. Her strength had been sapping away for days now, ever since running from Abstergo, or maybe for much longer. Perhaps she had began falling apart when she _went _to Abstergo to see what she saw there.

It was difficult to tell where meeting Altaïr factored in her decision, when she had began to take pointers from Ezio. The Assassins had changed since their time. They had always been secretive, they had always been hidden, but there had been times, too, when they would walk the streets with heads held high and the crowds parted before them, times when they had simply drawn their sword and joined the battle. Sometimes the bare necessities of survival made you forget parts of yourself.

Lucy eyed Rebecca. "You are in no fighting condition," she said.

"You saw that, didn't you," Rebecca muttered, but made no argument.

"Do I hear a 'it's on you Shaun'?" Shaun asked.

Lucy gave him a quick, toothy grin. "We have _no_ time for subtle. We _have_ time for quick."

She saw the hesitation in Shaun's face, saw it slither across his features and then fall away to be replaced by determination. He gave a curt nod, moved away from the wall so it wouldn't hinder him, sap away precious seconds.

The Templars were not far, just a handful of steps, crossing the open alley. A rubbish container blocked the view from one direction. It wasn't cover, too small and too low on the ground. The Templars had a warning, saw them coming and reacted, moved apart from each other, reaching for their radios. They didn't have the time for that.

Lucy kicked the Templar's hand away and punched him in the nose, felt the thin bone crack under the impact, but had no time to spare. Grunting with the pain, but too well trained to succumb, the Templar gripped her other hand and held, thrust with one foot and dragged her feet away from under her. The world tilted in her vision as she was going down. She heard Shaun utter a breathless, "Shit," but he was out of her sight. Something crashed in the container, send the dull metal scrapping along the wall.

Lucy twisted her arm free, rolled back to her feet, snatched the Templar's hand away again before he could call in. This time she dug her fingers right into his shoulder and ripped at the small device. The Templar let her, knowing she was leaving herself vulnerable. She was face to face with him, young, snarling face, bloodied from his broken nose. He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her even closer and danced them around, threw them both back at the wall, letting the back of her head collide with it. Pain exploded in her head, but she had worked the radio loose, finally, tossed it past the Templar's shoulder.

Bearing the pain for the moment, she had one free hand and she put it to the side of the Templar's head, shuffling her feet until she had them tangled with his, before he had time to adjust. She hooked her leg around his, pulled it away from under him. He dipped to the side, just slightly, his balance shaken and she pushed her head, with all the strength her position still offered. Smashed him into the wall the way he had done to her. His grip slackened and she freed herself, put her hands back to his head and, baring her teeth, she twisted until she heard the familiar crunching of his neck.

She whirled around for Shaun, found him still struggling with the Templar. Shaun's arm lay over the Templar's throat, crushing it, but the Templar had managed to pull his rifle, trying to twist it so he could shoot into Shaun's side without hitting himself. Lucy sprang forward, kicked the gun from him and stepped down hard on the Templar's hand. Shaun bore down on the Templar with a hard shove and finally the Templar went limp.

"You okay?" Lucy asked, helping Shaun back to his feet.

"After a roll in a litter bin?" he grimaced. "Just hunky dory. Can we not mention it again, ever?"

Lucy smiled. "Promise. Let's go, we shouldn't be out…"

Shouts from the end of the alley made her fall silent. A patrol of three Templars had just rounded the corner. Two were aiming, the third was fiddling with the comm at his shoulder.

"Freeze!" one yelled, fixing them past the nozzle of his rifle. To his companion he said, "Call in, we've got two of them."

Lucy and Shaun stood perfectly still, almost transfixed. Both of them, looking for a chance out.

Lucy cursed herself inwardly. Stupid girl, thinking she could play it like this. But what other option did she have? It could have worked, _should _have worked. The comm wasn't working, not well enough apparently to rely the information and the Templar repeated himself several times, adjusting some setting with his other hand.

From the corner of her eyes, Lucy saw movement, faint against the brightening sky. A little flare, like a signal fire and something inside her cheered at the sight, before her consciousness could even put a name to it.

A small knife flew through the air, thin and silver and so fast it seemed to draw a line of white, cut the sky and the horizon in two before it buried himself in the Templar's eye. Another knife, just as small, just a vicious, found the other until only the leader was left. Lucy read the slow realisation in his face, crawling over it as he turned to see his comrades folded in on themselves.

Lucy lifted her gaze to the nearest houses, saw Ezio's tall shape for a moment as he stepped over the edge and landed gracefully on the cracked concrete, right between the two dead Templars. He straightened with the same fluid motion and Lucy, even across the distance, felt the power of him, the _certainty _of the death he brought. A shiver passed through the Templar's body, transfixed into stillness like an animal, helpless before its master.

Ezio cut his throat, and held him, forced the thin blade all the way back until it touched the spine, then pushed the Templar aside.

"Good timing," Lucy said as he strode toward Ezio. "Thank you."

"I was on a rescue mission," Ezio said. He stood casually, hands tucked in his trouser pockets, just past the belt that held the knives. "But I see you started without me."

Rebecca emerged from her hiding spot, grumbling about being unable to help.

"There is a sympathiser within the Templars," Lucy explained. "She helped us."

Lucy scanned the surrounding rooftops, than looked back at Ezio. There was very little left of his congenial mien, merely the hint of a smile and the calm confidence of his pose. His eyes were dark on her's, utterly deep.

"Where is Desmond?"

"Picking up supplies," Ezio said. "He wanted to save you, but it's a risk he can't take, so I came. Are you going for Altaïr?"

"Not primarily," Lucy said slowly. "I have a different idea. We have to keep the Templars from sending reinforcements and we…." She trailed off, unsure of how Ezio would take her plan. "If we find a way to free Altaïr, of course we'll take it."

Ezio watched her, seemed to read her face, or even her mind. "Will you manage?" he asked instead of pressing her. Was that because he didn't want to know? Because he trusted her judgement enough not to waste time on explanations? If she told him her plan and he said 'no', would she obey?

"Some of those knives would be useful," Lucy said. "We don't know what's going on in there."

He smiled a little, undoing the belt and handing it to her.

"Where did you find those anyway?" she asked. The weight of the knives around her hip was somehow comforting, the reliability of steel and a blade. It was too deeply ingrained to easily dismiss, even in those modern days.

"I passed a shop, just down that alley," he said, pointing with his chin. "It made me wonder why I haven't visited Tassamlé earlier."

Ezio looked them over, his attention resting on Rebecca for a moment longer, but he said nothing about her condition. Lucy wondered if he saw more than she had, if Ezio's longer experience afforded him an insight they all lacked that told him exactly how long she would still be able to hold on.

"I'll go look for Desmond," Ezio said. "When we have everything, I'll set him on his path to Sianahk'ab. We'll stall the Templars here, they will not follow him."

"Yes," Lucy nodded, hesitated. She said, "About the plan…"

"You'll do as you must," Ezio cut her off. "Like all of us."

He bent his head, not quite a bow, and smiled dazzling for no more than a second. "Safety and peace," he said and left them.

* * *

Altaïr spent the night in the conference room, both hands cuffed to the table and with a Templar in each corner of the room, training a gun at him. They changed shift every two hours with silent efficiency. Lesser men might have been tempted to bully Altaïr, to taunt him over his failure, or imminent death. They could have vented whatever anger they held at him, because there was very little he could have done to stop them. The table was too heavy and probably even bolted to the floor, the table leg too thick and solid to easily break. The cuffs sat tightly around his wrists with not enough room to slip free, even if he dislodged a thumb for a better fit. No, for the time being, he would have to stay put and bide his time.

He was tired, but his tied position offered little opportunity for rest and the close Templar scrutiny made such impossible. As long as they were watching him, he had to watch them in turn, lest they forget who the predator was among them. He allowed himself a few shifts in position, flexing his shoulders and legs to keep them from cramping as the hours stretched on.

Behind his back, a wide window opened a gorgeous view of Tassamlé and the jungle beyond. Morning came quickly, in silver and pale yellow. Mist rose from the forests, made the tall trees swim in a sea of white, hid the roads of the town from view, swallowed the Templars still patrolling in the streets. He followed the pattern of their movement as the mist was burned away by oncoming heat. They were still searching, not justpatrolling. They were too alert, too careful even this close to their headquarters. They hadn't been able to track Ezio, and Ezio, for all his anger, all his little-boy-lost naiveté, all his pointless flourishes, Ezio knew how to play his part.

There were footsteps outside the hall. Templar Knights were posted there, at least four, maybe even six. Altaïr couldn't see them from were he sat, but the way people moved betrayed there presence. It was too early for his guards to change, so something else was going down. The door was unlocked and a small woman walked in. She was a shadow, always pinned behind Rikkin's shoulder, subservient and organised. People didn't always notice her.

She hadn't slept much, or not at all. She looked dishevelled, hair no longer quite in order, pantsuit crinkled over her thin body. Her appearance made Altaïr's guards twitch and shuffle, but she looked past them and at Altaïr instead.

"He is to be brought to Sir Alan's office," she said. Her voice quivered only a little, not enough to betray her lie to less perceptive ears. The guards hesitated. She was, quite obviously, nothing in and of herself. She had no authority of her own to command them, but she was also Rikkin's mouthpiece, his stand-in. Her words meant nothing, but she never spoke her own words to start with.

One of the guards nodded and left his corner. Two stayed where they were, fingers tightening around the triggers of their guns, while the third approached Altaïr with the key for the handcuffs. He should have put the gun down before coming close. The first one, who had cuffed him after the doctor was done treating him, had remembered the precaution. This one did not. The rifle slung over his shoulder, he had to crouch down to reach the table leg. His eyes kept flickering upwards, to the seemingly relaxed and profusely unthreatening Assassin.

Altaïr watched him for a moment, committing to memory the man's position, the angles of his limbs. Then Altaïr looked up, caught the woman's gaze for a long moment. She held his hidden blade in one hand, half behind her, pressed against the wall where it was nearly invisible for the guards. Feeling his attention, she took a step to the side, so her body covered the door. With her free hand, she reached for the door, and quietly locked it.

The weight of the cuffs fell from his hands. He would have only an instant, Altaïr knew, only a heartbeat before his hands were tied again and maybe two before the Templar was out of his reach. Altaïr pulled his hands back and jerked his knee up, past the edge of the table and against the Templar's chin. The man toppled backward, but Altaïr caught him instantly, brought him forward again and crushed his forehead against the table's edge. Altaïr slipped from the chair with the sagging Templar and nimbly pulled the rifle free from where it had shuddered to the Templar's elbow as he fell.

By then, the other Templars had gathered their wits, Altaïr heard the surprised yell and a moment later shots bit into the wood above him. The table, so massive and solid, wasn't going to withstand for long. It _did _hold off the first shots, made him a difficult target. Altaïr followed the table's length, his cracked rib protesting in razor-sharp pain. He paid it no heed, kept his attention on the variables of where the other Templars were. One right in front of him, who had figured out that Altaïr was coming for him and was backtracking, trying to get some distance. Altaïr thrust the rifle forward, past the table and fired a round upward before he slipped further, leaving his cover to stand behind the Templar. A bullet had torn into his head from below, shattering his jaw as it went in. He was twitching in dying from brain-damage, blood running from the wound. Altaïr gripped him, pulled him against him and that was when he realised he had made a mistake.

His right hand was not in working order, not like this. He couldn't fire the rifle one-handed with a sprained wrist and hope to hit as precisely as he needed to. He could handle the pain, but he couldn't command the strength when it wasn't there.

_"Kis ikhtak!" _he hissed through clenched teeth. It would have been so easy, so simple and beautiful. A bullet in each head and they would have been down without any fuss. Altaïr dropped back down a moment before the firing began, drew an arc into the wall behind him. There was yelling coming from the hallway outside and he was running out of time.

The table was hindering him more than protecting him. He kicked at a chair, only a handful of metres away from his last victim, to open a path and pulled himself back up and on the table. More shots, but the Templars couldn't bring the guns around fast enough, incapable to follow his movement. He had used the moment out of sight to put the gun in his good hand.

He jumped on the table, crouched low on it's surface just as a round of bullets shot past his head. It grazed him, blood throbbing in his temple, running down his neck. He lifted the rifle with one long, outstretched arm and fired in two short bursts. Spent casings snarled harmlessly past his face.

The Templars finally went down and Altaïr uncurled from the table.

The girl was so white, she might as well have been utterly transparent, she pressed her back hard against the wall, shoulders digging in, as if she was trying to force herself through it.

"I…I'm," she stuttered. "I'm not an enemy."

"I know."

The door shuddered under some impact and Altaïr eyed it critically.

"I…" she began again. "I met a man, more than a year ago. He…" She faltered when he made no answer. The door trembled again, wood splintered around the lock.

"Yes," Altaïr nodded. He held out his hand and she stared at it for a long moment in puzzlement, until she remembered that she was still holding on to the gauntlet. She handed it to him and winced when her fingers brushed his, the spark of living warmth from a man who should have been dead for centuries.

He smiled briefly, but paid her no more attention, snapping the gauntlet back on his wrist and released the blade to test whether anything had been damaged by the Templars' inept attempt to clean it. If he was quite honest with himself, Altaïr would have liked to watch Rikkin put it on. This hidden blade was the old design, meant for _his _left, he had never seen a reason to change it; he balled his hand into a fist, felt the caress of the blade, just short of slicing his other fingers.

"Take cover," Altaïr told the girl and the door burst in.

* * *

_Megalopsuchia (Old Greek, translated as "greatness of soul" or "proper pride") — Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics (Book IV)_

_A/N: It took Aristotle quite a lot of words to describe what he really meant here, I would never dream of trying to express it in a single sentence or so. It relates to Desmond figuring out that, maybe, he still has some choice in who he is becoming._

* * *

**Arabic (aka The Language That I Do Not Speak At All):**

_Al-khailu wa 'l-lailu wal-baidāʾu taʿrifunī_ (The horse, the night, and the desert know me) — from a famous poem by Al-Mutanabbi

_kis ikhtak_ (lit. your sister's vagina; meaning 'fuck')


	18. Nihil Verum Nisil Mors

**Author's Note: **Let it be known that I genuinely _like_ Rikkin...

* * *

**Ch****apter 18: Nihil Verum Nisil Mors**

Desmond felt guilty with the sour taste of his own words thrown back at him. Here he was, having called _a fucking end _to all the killing, and he felt alive like no moment he could recall when he straightened on top of the jeep's roof and surveyed the handful of Templar soldier at his feet around him.

He had jumped from a nearby shed, where he had crouched in shadow for a few long minutes only to now stand in the bright sunlight with his eyes narrowed against the sudden glare.

He had spent the previous hour hunting the village for other supplies. They were neatly piled in a garage now, rucksacks and new clothes, a machete with an edge that gleamed invitingly. The compass was rotating wildly and Desmond wondered briefly what use it was going to be and how he was ever going to find Sianahk'ab without any idea in which direction he was going. The jungle looked impenetrable even from here, swallowing the narrow roads leading into it. But the thought had been quickly forgotten, when he had gone to look for a car, something better suitable for off-road.

Desmond tilted his head, regarding the Templars. They looked surprised, frozen in the moment. He didn't think it was going to last. He _knew _it wasn't going to last. The man to his left recovered first, twitched into movement and Desmond flung himself to the side without hesitation. He felt one foot slip when he did, some moisture from the morning still clinging to the roof of the car and foiling what would otherwise have been a flawless execution. He heard yelling crest up behind him when the others finally figured out what was going on, that it wasn't another apparition appearing in their midst. Well, this is what it means to fight Assassins; Desmond chuckled inwardly at the insight even as the weight of his graceless jump forced his hidden blade into the Templar's face. There was a brief moment of resistance, when the blade scratched bone, then slipped low and found the gap between skull and jaw to tear into soft gums.

There were ways of how this was to be done, a hiss in his head told him, so he spared the time, scraped his fingers over the dead Templar's bloodied face, forcing his eyes shut while a tiny part of him was surprised how much strength was needed to do it.

Desmond stood back up, just in time to see another Templar round the car. He was too close, Desmond saw, if the man had had any sense, he would have kept his distance, used his gun from afar instead of trying to push it into Desmond's face.

Desmond sneered. He gripped the barrel and shoved it aside, past his shoulder. He stepped close and smashed his forehead into the Templar's face to the feel of the nose crunching under the impact. The Templar yelped in sudden pain, stumbled and made an awkward grip for Desmond's shoulder, fighting him off. Blood was blinding Desmond, sprayed into his eyes as it was and the dull, throbbing pain spreading in his head. He punched the hidden blade through the man's throat and let him fall, twitching and clutching at his throat for no more than a moment.

Desmond wiped his arm across his face, his own breathing too loud in his ears. There had been three Templars. Surely the third one had had enough time to come at him if he wanted? Unless he had more brains than his comrades and stayed away, called for help and waited for backup.

He edged forward carefully between the two jeeps, listening for the other man, listening for the jitter of the spidersilk, for the oiled metal of the gun, for the dry earth to shift under combat boots. There was nothing.

The jeeps were parked in a long row on a vacant lot at the edge of town. Only a handful of feet away, the road curled into the jungle. The Templars had set up a perimeter around all of Tassamlé but their patrols were spread much thinner than Desmond had expected. He had watched the patrol go by for a while, getting a sense of their timing, before jumping down. Tassamlé was hardly watertight. If they didn't need the cars, they probably could have made a run for it and the Templars would have never known. He wondered where Ezio was, whether he had found Lucy and the others. Wondered whether Ezio would even consider helping Altaïr.

Desmond stopped, just before he would become visible from the open space around him. No one was here, his senses told him as much and he allowed himself a slight sigh. The third Templar must have ran back, trying to find help rather than stay and die. No one was here, but the world wasn't completely solid. Sometimes it would shiver and change for no more than a moment only to revert when he blinked. He would be standing in a garden somewhere, or a dusty road, inside a smoky tavern and on a beach. It didn't confuse him in the way it once would have done. He took it in his stride, narrowed his eyes to focus his vision and move on. If he paid it no heed, maybe his mind would rearrange itself around all of this, adapt rather than send him spinning into insanity. He hadn't felt this stable in a long while and he rather doubted that it was a good sign.

Desmond turned away, looked down at the two corpses he had just left behind. Two lives lost just because of him, _another _two lives and the worst was, he had enjoyed doing this. Not death itself, not even the power it gave him, but the diamondine-edged evidence of his own excellence. To think that _he can do this, _that he could fly from the sky like all those Assassins of old who stalked the Templars' nightmares.

A shadow passed over him briefly and he looked up, saw Ezio's familiar shape on a rooftop. Desmond watched him for a moment, but Ezio made no attempt to join him and Desmond nodded slowly. Il Mentore was testing him, it seemed, but would not interfere unless necessary. If Ezio was here, it meant the others were safe, or at least as safe as they could possibly be around here. They were _free _anyhow, a fighting chance and that was all the odds they needed. It least, that's what he wanted to believe.

He walked back to the dead Templars and managed not to stumble when the ground under his feet seemed to be soft grass for a step only to become a water-stained mosaic the next.

Desmond shook himself free from the memories, looking at the Templars, If neither of them had any keys on them, he would have to hot-wire the car, which was going to make the rest of the journey just so much less enjoyable.

* * *

There had been six solider placed as guards outside the conference room and they burst into the room with force. They were too experience to allow themselves to be channelled through the narrow opening of the broken door. Meghan fled into a corner, but the first shots had ripped the window to pieces, send the glass in rain of glittering splinters down on her. Something wet was running down her cheek from a cut and she didn't dare move, barely dared to breath.

Six men were nothing against Altaïr. And she had read the reports as they had come in, from the trap they had set for him and she had seen the casualty list; a neat catalogue of carnage and she _had _shuddered inwardly, but they had been numbers, nothing more. Death happened in wars, it was nothing to worry about in itself. Seeing it now, a handful of metres away, was something else entirely. She didn't know these men, had paid them no heed at all when she had passed them by, but they weren't a statistic now.

There was a young man, dirty-blond hair and taller than the others with both his legs broken and his throat cut. He had fallen to the ground, his eyes wide open and staring at her emptily. She couldn't look away, didn't _dare _look away for fear of what else she would see. The shadows moved around her, gently outlined in the morning sun. Grunts and groans and the thin metallic hiss of the hidden blade when it came from its sheathe. She had not wanted this. She had not wanted to bring destruction to people who trusted her. She had wondered, in the past months, turned words in her head, slowly slowly changing her understanding of who and what Abstergo was, who she had chosen to serve, until she had decided — until she had _known — _that she would have to do something. She had disavowed the evil that was Abstergo and the Templars only to find herself facing just another sort of evil.

Silence followed the violence in a mockery of mourning and she looked up slowly, tore herself away from the dead Templar's gaze.

Altaïr was stripping a Templar of his boots in quick, efficient movements. Hunched over, he looked like a scavenger and for a moment Meghan wouldn't have been surprised to see him tear into the corpse with his teeth.

"I met a man," Meghan said tonelessly. She only realised she had spoken when her own voice startled her, sent a sick shiver down her spine. "A little over a year ago. I don't go to clubs normally, but I was with friends and it was good." She jerked her head. The sting on her cheek hurt when she smiled, but the expression was empty, meaningless. "I don't usually do one-night stands, either, but he was different. Special."

Altaïr glanced in her direction briefly, then returned it to the Templar, stripping the spidersilk shirt from him. Straightening, he pulled it on and shoved a small handgun into the waistband of his pants. He looked down the hallway, then stepped away. He circled the table and stopped by the broken window. He kicked the sharp spike of a shard free, sent it glittering into the open air outside.

Meghan said, "We spoke, in the morning. He said a lot of things I… can't shake them. About freedom. About the value of it. That we must be allowed to make choices. That peace without freedom is not worth having." She let her eyes fall closed, sunk against the wall. She felt boneless and so very tired. "I believed him."

Altaïr chuckled quietly and her eyes snapped open. Altaïr looked back at her. She had read the descriptions of him, but she had disregarded half of it. No man had golden eyes, no man had a raptor's gaze outside of fiction. Only when it was true.

"Ezio makes a convincing argument once he puts his mind to it," Altaïr said mildly.

She couldn't handle more of this. She just stared at him and whispered, "Ezio… Auditore?" Another legend, another dead Assassin and how did anyone begin to comprehend all if this?

Past her exhausted mind, a new sound cut through the silence, low and metallic, different to the hidden blade and distantly familiar.

"I didn't think it would be you, Meghan," Rikkin said from the door with his gun aimed at Altaïr's head. He kept his attention fixed on the Assassin even as he had spoken to Meghan.

Altaïr went still, muscles pulled tight and ready to spring. He turned slowly in a concession to the new shift in power.

Rikkin didn't dare take his eyes off him, barely dared to blink. The entire width of the conference table was between them, but Rikkin didn't know how fast Altaïr truly could be if he had to. The Assassin looked feral with blood soiling his shirt and yesterday's bruises still stark on his skin.

"Why won't you listen to me?" Rikkin asked. It was difficult to keep his voice controlled, but this was not the moment to falter; there was too much that still hung in the balance. Surely this Assassin — this _ancestor_ of his — could be reasoned with? All the truths he must have seen in all his centuries, how could he bypass this chance for peace?

"You abducted Desmond. You tortured him and drove him insane. You took thechild from Adha just to spite me. You set a trap for me and mine. You put me chains."

"We did what we had to do," Rikkin said. "Isn't that the same you do? _Everything is permitted, _isn't it?"

Altaïr smiled, slight and cold and deadly. "Don't use words when you can't even begin to comprehend their meaning."

Rikkin shook his head, scowling just a little. "But think of what we could do! Assassin and Templar together! We could save this world! Not only from destruction, but from itself." He paused, added softly. "And from our war."

Altaïr kept watching him, poise collected and composed. Almost invisible past the sleeve of his stolen shirt, the hidden blade glinted in the sun. He had never retracted it.

"I don't make deals when I'm in chains," Altaïr said. "What makes you think I make deals over a gun barrel?"

Rikkin glanced down at the weapon, faintly amused despite the strain. "A precaution," he said and lowered it just slightly, hardly enough to lessen its threat. He fixed his gaze back at Altaïr. "But do I need it?"

"I believe you want to save the world," Altaïr said, making a statement and not a concession.

Rikkin breathed and momentarily failed to hide his inner turmoil from his face. He looked tense and tired. Whatever plans he had for this, whatever gamble he thought he was playing, none of this could ever have been a part of it.

"Yes, I do," Rikkin said simply. The truth for once, but maybe he had never been anything but genuine, despite all the trappings of manipulations and power plays. What else was the scion of an old Templar family to do, confronted as he had been, with so many dark secrets? The Assassins were fascinating, miss-guided but a force to be reckoned with. And sometimes they got things right. Sometimes you took a leap of faith.

Rikkin searched Altaïr's face for a long moment, the stoicism and the force it took to keep it in place. Rikkin lowered the gun. And Altaïr jumped.

He would have known even before he did that he couldn't make it. The distance was too far and with no time to even change his stance and no moment to prepare. He almost made it and if the table had been only a little narrower, he might have stabbed the hidden blade into Rikkin's throat with the full force of the jump behind him. As it was, he had to take a second leap, losing a handful of precious seconds in which Rikkin ripped the gun back up and took several steps back to gain more room. The gun was aimed at Altaïr's forehead with utter, inherited steadiness, even though Rikkin was breathing fast and his dilated eyes betrayed his surprise. His face had turned pale.

"You are not a stupid man," Rikkin said harshly. "You know I'm right. You _know _we must end this while we still can. The war has been going on for too long. No other Templar will ever again make you an offer like that."

Motionlessly poised on the table, Altaïr didn't immediately answer. His gaze lingered on Rikkin, heavy with threat, taking in every angle of his opponents stance, calculating his chances for another attack. He made no attempt to hide his line of thought, all pretence lost in the rush of impending battle.

"I cannot trust you," Altaïr growled. "And you should never trust me."

Rikkin laughed and it was a fake sound, full of shards and irony. He stopped himself abruptly, fixed Altaïr intently. "But I might," he said. "I read it, you know. I saw the old files, the old _history. _About the Chalice and what she meant to you once. Do you remember her?"

Altaïr's face never changed, but his very stillness gave him away. It tore open a chasm of centuries beneath his feet, threatening to swallow him and dulling the killing instinct.

Rikkin saw it too and nodded, once. "It's her blood in me. Could you really kill me, knowing that I'm the last of what is left of her in the world? I have no love for Abstergo. They took my son, too. They owe me."

When Altaïr made no answer, Rikkin added, wide-eyed, "You see it, don't you, the memory of her in my face."

The words and their truths hung in the air between them, like the dust dancing in the rays of light and the charged air. It seemed almost like a tangible force, ready to shoot lighting and fire, consume all of this in one blazing conflagration.

Altaïr's eyes dug into Rikkin's, gold grating against steel until Altaïr blinked, gaze flickering away and he bared his teeth and mouthed, _"Don't."_

Rikkin had time to draw a breath, had the time to feel the hard circle of a gun nozzle against the side of his head. Perhaps he even felt the instant of _heat _and _pressure _and heard the dull hiss of the bullet as its sound was swallowed by the silencer.

Rikkin folded in on himself with a measure of grace, all the tension lost in his body, blood and brain-matter splattered across the table and the carpet and the wall.

"I'm sorry," Lucy said softly and tucked the gun away. "I couldn't let you do it."

Altaïr said nothing, he still crouched on the table, frozen in the instant before he sprang. The look with which he regarded her wasn't given to allies, or friends, or lovers. This look was reserved for prey and the appraisal of their threat value.

"I am sorry," Lucy repeated. She was standing her ground, but just barely. "I know what you said, about bowing to the Templars? I couldn't take that risk."

She glanced down at Rikkin briefly, then looked back at Altaïr. "I've worked for Abstergo for years. I've been on the inside. If we stop fighting them, they'll just absorb us. We can't survive that." She looked at Altaïr, refusing to fear, daring him not to understand what she was saying. "There were moments at Abstergo when I caught myself wondering. Maybe, I thought, they aren't as wrong as I had always thought. They world was in chaos and there was so much suffering. We were too few, always too few, to make a difference. But Abstergo had the power and the connections. And I thought, if I could only give it a different spin, it wouldn't be so bad."

She took a shuddering breath. She had no desire to recall that time when she almost had faltered. It had been almost too late by the time she realised what was happening, almost too late to pull back from the edge of the betrayal she had almost committed. There was still not even a twitch from Altaïr. She shook her head, breaking the mesmerising look between them. Altaïr was death, but their were things she feared far more.

"You can't do this to us," she said with utter certainty. "If you give us to the Templars, there would be no coming back. It would be a complete surrender and we could never take back. Abstergo would just swallow us."

She had felt the tension of a moment before, the cackle of it in the very air, just waiting to snap and this was no different. It felt hot on her skin, like scorching desert sands and all that only because Altaïr simply wouldn't _move. _Far too easy to imagine what would happen when he did, familiar as he was with far too many battlefield. And then he _did _move, uncoiling with slow deliberation and regaining his feet with fluid grace. His gaze rested on Rikkin's crumpled form.

"Altaïr…" Lucy began, but fell silent when Altaïr snapped his head back towards her.

"Never," he said, so quietly she could barely hear it. "_Never _come between me and my target."

She would no argue with him. "I'm sorry," she said again. "But I'm right. You don't understand, you _can't _understand."

There was a sound, a low whimper and the crunch of broken glass under a boot. Lucy whipped around, instinct well ahead of conscious thought, and aimed her gun.

Meghan looked back at her from bloodshot eyes, barely comprehending the weapon. She looked away from Lucy and at Altaïr. She moved her hands helplessly. "What happens now?" she asked, thin-voiced and broken.

Lucy took her gun away. She gave Altaïr another look, but he seemed still locked in some other mood and she let him be, grateful to be able to move away from under his gaze. Lucy crossed the room, scrutinised Meghan for injury. "Are you hurt?"

Meghan shook her head. "I don't think so, I…"

Lucy knew that Meghan was about to fall apart right in front of her, just like that. An Abstergo employee or not, Meghan hadn't been meant to be part of this. "You helped us," Lucy said, as gently as she could. She wanted to reach out and touch the other woman, give her some kind of reassurance, but she doubted Meghan could handle it. "You saved us. That was important. That was _right. _You know that, yes?"

Meghan blinked, noticeably trying to make sense of what Lucy had just said. Meghan looked past her, skittering gaze passing over the dead Templars strewn around the room. She looked back at Lucy pleadingly.

"It will get better," Lucy said. "I know it's not much of a consolidation, but it does."

"What will happen to me now?" Meghan asked.

Lucy felt Altaïr's presence behind her, the killer's vicinity that made her skin crawl. If she had Eagle Vision, would it show him as an enemy now? Had it changed when Lucy decided that she was not going to compromise what she knew of the truth, not even for him? But Altaïr seemed to have collected himself. There was no tension bleeding from his posture, no direct threat in his pose.

"You can take the Templars," Altaïr said. "Everyone who knew what you did is dead. Templars like hierarchies, they will look for someone to give them orders. In such a time, seizing control is easy."

Speechless, Meghan only looked at him. His closeness seemed to calm her, help clear her head. Expressions fluttered across her features as if unsure on what to settle. She clenched her mouth, the muscles in her jaw twitched. "And then?"

"Give it a different spin," Altaïr said simply.

Lucy's heart missed a beat. She didn't know whether she had been forgiven or whether it even made a difference.

Altaïr had no qualms of turning away from Meghan then, leaving her behind in the carnage and chaos of the conference room, where she stood shivering and lost, with shards of glass glittering in her hair like diamonds.

Outside, Lucy fell in step beside Altaïr.

"So," he said. "Where do we go?"

Lucy didn't answer immediately. There were too many thoughts in her head that made it difficult to remember which was important and which were not. "We've commandeered a small computer room on the ground floor. There are still Templars in the town-hall, but we've switched their radio off. It'll be some time before they realise what's going on."

She glanced up at him. "I have an idea," she said slowly. "I'm not sure you'll like it."

The corners of his mouth shifted into the beginning of a smile. It was short and strained. "That doesn't seem to daunt you unduly."

She swallowed. "Look, Altaïr… I meant what I said. I…"

He stopped, turned and pinned her to the wall on an outstretched arm. It happened far too fast for her to defend herself, far too fast for her to even see it coming.

"Let it go," he said, voice pitched low. "What's done is done, but don't ask for my approval." He paused for a moment, then took his hand away from her. "Tell me the plan."

* * *

The room was a small office, lit from the outside only through a narrow window. Too many desks had been shoved inside, huddling together in the centre of the room. It smelled of old wood, threadbare carpet and the static scent from old computer screens. Cords hung around the room, coming through the door in a thick bundle and converging on Rebecca's laptop.

Shaun stood on a table, pulling another cords from where he had hacked open the very wall. He danced around on his perch when Lucy pushed open the door, easily balanced despite the table swayed under his movement.

"There was trouble?" Lucy asked, indicating the new strains of blood along his shirt and sleeve.

He shrugged. "A little. It got a smidgen too noisy for our inconspicuousness," he gave Rebecca a pointed look and she responded with a dismissive wave. "You do realise that I don't have to prove my manhood with my fists."

"We all have to make sacrifices," Lucy said. She walked through the room to stand behind Rebecca. Altaïr followed her inside, nodded a quick greeting at Shaun and Lucy. He stopped to look at the setup, waiting.

"How far are we?" Lucy asked.

"Well," Rebecca stretched the word like chewing gum. "I can hook into Abstergo's satellite feed, but there is no way in hell they won't notice. When they do, I can't stop them from just shutting us down. I could do it with more computing power, but there isn't enough around."

Lucy hesitated, looked at Altaïr. Shaun jumped from the table, dragging another set of cords with him. "These are from the third dish," he said.

"Good," Rebecca said. "Pluck 'em in on the array. Don't get a jolt."

He muttered something inaudible.

"How much time will I have?" Lucy asked.

"A handful of minutes," Rebecca said, considering. "Hard to tell. No more than ten at the utmost, probably a lot less than that."

Lucy nodded slowly, looking around the room again. She picked a corner and began pushing the desks out of the way while Shaun helped adjust the camera. Staring at his screen he said, "A touch too dark, I'm afraid. Unless that is what you are going for…?"

"No, we need this to be in the open," she said. "Let's get the table lamps arranged."

Shaun snorted, but refrained from commenting.

"We have a good window coming up!" Rebecca announced, looked up from behind her screen. "The interference is dropping rapidly and that means I have more freedom to cover our tracks. Better think of what you plan to say fast, Luce."

Lucy took a deep breath, trying hard not to feel frightened. The lamps were right in her face now, a blinding glare that hid the rest of the room from her sight, made her swim into nothingness.

She narrowed her eyes until she found Shaun's dark shape. "Shaun, can you make sure we aren't disturbed? I don't think the Templars will look for us here, but we have only one chance at this."

From somewhere else in the darkness, Altaïr said, "I will go."

She sensed rather than saw him move and she almost let him go. Instead she said, "No."

He stopped, she felt it and wished she could see him clearly. He must have turned to face her, but he said nothing.

Lucy shook her head. "No, I want you to stand with me."

The silence betrayed his surprise, it coiled like smoke around him, just about visible now that Lucy's eyes had began to adjust to the brightness.

"What would that accomplish?" he asked.

She fixed him, willing herself to penetrate the border of light and dark separating them, trying to impress on him that she was no some little girl playing a game she did not understand. Oh, there was plenty she did not know, far too much she was ignorant of, but she knew she understood Abstergo and the new Templars of her own age. Whatever plans he once had had, it didn't look like they had come through and she wasn't prepared to let it all fall by the wayside just because he said so.

The Assassins had tried to free humanity of symbols, take away all their false gods and give them the means to shape their own fates. And yet, even after all this time, symbols still mattered and still held power, even to them. It might have been inevitable, against human nature and there had been a goddess under the Vatican once, who spoke of the future as if it had already been written.

"You are an Assassin," Lucy said. "That's the first thing I thought when I saw you in that safe house in New York. Everything about you, the way you move, the way you _don't _move. That's what we see, what everyone in the brotherhood will see: An Assassin powerful beyond everything we ever dreamt of. They won't know who you are, or maybe they'll think you are Desmond. It doesn't matter who they see, but _what. _We'll need this, if those dark days come."

She expected him to argue, to refuse, say something else that shattered all her closest-held beliefs all over again. Instead, he bent his head in acknowledgement, a gesture she could just barely make our and stepped forward and out of the darkness.

The light was harsh on his face, painted his features in merciless contrast. The drying blood on his shoulder looked purple and surreal, more ghastly now than it already did. Lucy wondered for a moment how she appeared. Frosty white, her skin an lifelessy pallor? Or did she look like she felt? Rings under her eyes, new lines carved into her skin?

"Now or never," Rebecca said. "Action."

Lucy wasn't ready, she knew she would never be ready. The tiny spot of light at the camera changed from red to green and Lucy had only time to swallow once and then threw caution to the winds.

"I am Lucy Stillman, I am an Assassin of the Brotherhood. I was undercover at Abstergo for the last few years, but my cell operated in and around New York City. I am sending this message, because we have nothing else left to do," she swallowed again. Her throat was so dry, ready to bleed. "You all know that this planet is heading for a disaster and we are here," she made a gesture with one hand, indicating her surroundings of which her perceived audience could not see much. "We are here to stop it. But the fight has been long and I don't know how many of you are still there. I'm sending this message to ask all of you to step out of the shadows, take this fight into the light. Take up arms, my brothers and sisters. This is the war we have all seen coming for centuries."

Rebecca struck an arm into the light, two fingers raised to indicate what time remained for her.

"This is a public broadcast. There be many people…" she stopped, shook her head slightly, then looked directly at the camera. "There will be many of you who do not understand what I'm speaking about. I have not the time to explain, but know that there are those who would use your fear against you. They would sell you salvation at the price of your freedom. That is what we fight against and what we fight _for_. I promise you one thing, here, today: We will not abandon you, whatever future is in store for us. We still have the time to turn the tide and I swear to you, we are fighting for you, now more than ever. Do not give up, do not give in. This is not the end."

The green light changed back so quickly she wasn't sure her last sentence had even gone through at all. Lucy stood rooted to the spot, feeling faint and tired. Rebecca began switching off the lamps and the normal brightness of the room seemed dull and faded, far more surreal than the invisible audience she had just spoken to. It was a staggering thought, to think that her face had just been broadcast to television screens the world over, that her face would be spread through the internet. What chaos had she kicked lose? The Assassins, however few still remained, would have understood her and known what she was speaking about, what she was asking of them, but what of the others? All the normal people, ripped from the innocence of their everyday lives. Doubtlessly, they would think her mad, just another lunatic making use of modern technology, or maybe some viral advertisement for the next blockbuster. They would see the truth soon enough, Lucy knew, when the fighting started in their street. And later, if they all failed, when the flames came down.

She clenched her teeth, but that, too, felt distant. Altaïr put his hand to her shoulder and how ironic it was that it would be him, with all he was, who would reattach her to this reality. She wasn't even sure the gesture was meant to be reassuring. He lingered only for a moment, than shook into movement, crossed the uncertain twilight. It didn't matter that she must have never meant anything much to him at all.

Shaun slipped in, closed the door with some care to prevent the loud snapping of the lock. "Templars headed our way," he announced.

The moment was lost, Lucy realised. She could not stop to think now, there was no time to order her thoughts and ponder whether she had just made the greatest mistake of her life. There were still colourful blotches in her vision, making it difficult to focus. "Rebecca, I want you stay out of it."

"I can still shoot," Rebecca protested.

"Yeah, but that'll mean a Templar will go for you," Lucy said. "Keep your head down, I'm not losing you now."

* * *

The jungle loomed above him, densely woven green and solid trunks. The road narrowed down only a handful of metres in, barely wide enough for the jeep. The sunlight failed to light this place, filtered through thick leaves until it was weak and thin before it reached the ground. It reminded Desmond of a monsters wide-open maw, ready and eager to snap at him, chew him down and then resettle itself to wait for the next victim.

He gave the GPS tracker a shake. "I can't believe it's working," he said.

"GPS frequency is different from what is used for radio broadcasts," Ezio explained. "It's possible this range is less affected than others."

Desmond gave him a critical look. "And suddenly you are an expert on this sort of thing?"

Ezio shrugged and gave him a quick grin. "Think of it, rookie, maybe there is more to me than stunning good looks and fighting skills."

Desmond frowned, but decided to let it go. He looked back down at the GPS. "And if it breaks down on me somewhere in the middle of all that?" He pointed with his thumb at the jungle.

"You are on your own," Ezio said truthfully.

"That's not what I wanted to hear," Desmond muttered. "I'll just ask the closest monkey or something. There is bound to be an ancestor who spoke ape, right? Just a matter of going back far enough."

Ezio laughed. "Come, I'll show you something."

Desmond followed Ezio down the road and around the first bent. Already Tassamlé seemed a world away. Ezio cut into the jungle. This close to the town the shrubbery wasn't think enough to offer much resistance. After a few steps, Ezio stopped and patted his hand down on a conical stone, rising up from the foliage. It was too weathered to make out any writing on it, if it even ever had contained it.

"What is it?" Desmond asked.

"A milestone," Ezio said. "Leading directly to Sianahk'ab."

The jungle changed around him, suddenly he stood on a wide road, the wildness around him tamed and cleaned. The milestone is smooth and gleaming with just a hint of age to it. It had had writing on it, once, a long time ago and he remembers feeling a sense of both relief and dread. He is getting close to his destination.

Desmond blinked the memory way, forced himself to concentrate on the present and his surroundings snapped back.

"Shouldn't it be overgrown?" Desmond asked. He knew little of jungles, but didn't they grow like crazy?

"Oh yes," Ezio nodded. "Some residue of power, would be my guess. They roughly follows the road. You should stick with the road for a little longer than that, keep with the GPS when you can because that's the more direct route."

Desmond sighed, glanced around him and the jungle. He could sense its size, stretching on into the distance all around him. As impenetrable as an ocean and no more friendly to a fragile life. He looked back at Ezio. "You aren't coming with me?"

"No," he shook his head. "We have to make sure the Templars don't follow you, it's best if we make a stand here while you do your thing."

It made sense, of course, but he hadn't been truly on his own for a long while. "Now that you mention it, what do I do in Sianahk'ab?" he asked.

Ezio gave him a pat on the back, turned to get back to the car. "You save the world," he said matter-of-factly.

"Yes, but _how?" _Desmond insisted, scrambling after Ezio. "It's not like I got a manual or something. Unless there is a big red button saying 'press' how would I know what to do?"

"I have no easy answers, Desmond," Ezio said quietly. "I think it will become clear. I still think there is a point to all this. You are meant to go to there and you will find it."

Desmond said nothing. _Do you say that to convince me, or just yourself? _But he couldn't bring himself to speak it aloud. It would be unfair, Ezio had no more answers than Desmond himself, despite his altered perspective. They were all out in open water here, even Altaïr with all the knowledge he was keeping secret and even the Templars — Desmond never doubted that — only _thought _they understood everything that was going on.

The jungle loomed above him and Desmond couldn't shake the feeling that it was smirking.

* * *

_Nihil Verum Nisil Mors (Nothing is true but death)_


	19. And the Tempest Clouds Are Driven

**Note: **Before any of you jump to the wrong conclusion. At this point, Desmond has lost it. These are not 'pure' memories, instead, Desmond is projecting some of his own fears and desires onto his ancestors. In other words, he is actually talking with himself here, only he isn't always himself anymore.

One of the ancestors I made up is called Ammar. He is a warrior-poet of 11th Century Toledo (named for, inspired by and styled after Ammar Ibn Khairan from _The Lions of Al-Rassan_ by Guy Gavriel Kay and it was about time I gave credit.)

**Note #2**: The Massacre of Granada took place in 1066, wherein a mob murdered the Jewish vizier and subsequently killed a large portion of the Jewish population.

**Note #3:** Quoted from the umpteenth Revelations trailer: 'An Assassin takes orders from no one'. And Al Mualim does tell Altair at one point to 'trust in your master'.

* * *

**Chapter 19: And the Tempest Clouds Are Driven**

It was ending. It was written in Lucy's tired face and the suppressed pain flickering across Rebecca's. Desmond saw it in the way all the laughter had left Ezio, making him look hard and ancient. Desmond felt it in the spontaneous hug Shaun gave him and how Altaïr's deadliness seemed to coil around him like a tangible force.

"You aren't coming with me?" Desmond asked. He was leaning against the hood of the car, feeling the jungle still loom behind his shoulder.

Lucy shook her head. "We don't know what's happening out there, if my message got through. Or if it did what I hoped. If the Templars come…" she trailed off into silence, gave the ghostly town around her a quick glance. "_When _they come, we have to stop them here."

"I'm not sure if this is a good idea," Desmond said honestly. It wasn't a good idea, he supposed, it was simply that they never seemed to have had a choice. All the decisions they had taken to get here, all of them forced down on them by circumstances and chance and random, meaningless bad luck.

"Once we secure Tassamlé we'll follow you," Altaïr said. "Don't come back here."

Desmond frowned. Something about the way he said it made him wonder. Did Altaïr think Desmond would be incapable of coming back to Tassamlé on his own? What secrets was Altaïr still keeping? Desmond wanted to ask, wanted, in fact, to grip Altaïr by the collar and shake him until he told them _everything _for once. The whispers in his head kept him back, telling him that there was no time now, nothing to be gained from it when no other choices were presented to him either way.

Turning away was still one of the hardest things Desmond had ever done, the most devastating ending he had ever imagined. It felt like forever, irrevocable, whatever change he brought, he would never be able to return to this place. The Desmond who allowed himself to be swallowed by this jungle would never return.

In a way, he thought he had accepted it a long time ago and everything else were just token resistances.

The road leading into the jungle narrowed down quickly after only a few turns, became so narrow twigs brushed past his car on both sides. He wondered why the road existed at all, where it lead if he had chance to follow it to its end. Perhaps another village like Tassamlé, but blissfully unaware of the tragedy that had befallen their neighbours? It was dark here, at the bottom of the forest, where the sunlight reached only after being filtered through layers of leaves. Sometimes a thin rays would cut down to the ground and stab the ground like arrows.

Time became vague and insubstantial, difficult to track in the murky twilight and past the humming of the car.

Desmond was alone with the GPS and the voices in his head. It was difficult to imagine that they were gone, the real people from his life until all he had was the memory of them, some of them burned in his mind and he wasn't on his own at all in this. Even if they were dead, even if the Templars had prevailed in Tassamlé, Desmond had still carried away those memories. He could still hear them, their pain giving voice to the anguish he couldn't face — not now, because he would go to pieces if he did. Instead he felt again as Al Mualim's dagger ripped in his body and tore away his honour, everything he had ever been and cast it away, reduced him to a madman's ignorant instrument.

Desmond was _alone, _but not in the sense that other people would be alone. The flood had broken through and now its force seemed to have calmed and he felt balanced again.

"Have I ever told you about the only time I was genuinely afraid?"

Desmond hit the brakes so hard the jeep swerved sideways, scratched past a tree trunk and almost ended up turned back the way he had come from. There was shrieking as some spooked animal made its escape somewhere above. Too paralysed to move, Desmond simply stared into the rear-view mirror. Ammar sprawled on the backseat, legs hoisted up against the window. He had a small basked of oranges balanced on his belly and was calmly peeling on the them. His left ring finger was missing and a hidden black nestled within the confines of an elaborate vambrace. He was lavishly dressed, severely out of place against the worn leather of the car's seat.

"What the fuck?" Desmond said. He turned his head around, hoping against reason that the man would be gone from the reality, that he had only been projected through the mirror, but Ammar was still right there. He gave Desmond a toothy grin and popped an orange wedge into his mouth.

"It's that moment when I realised I've lost, when I knew nothing I could do would change the outcome," he said, his amused voice belying the sinister tone of his words. "I was there, in Granada when it happened." He shrugged, seemed to give Desmond time to fend of the sudden assault of memory, the rancid stench in his nostrils and the screaming in his ears.

"I knew we couldn't hold it," Ammar said, too lightly. "It was too good to last. Enlightenment _never _lasts. It has to be fought for time and again. It has to be defended every moment in history and there is always someone trying to take it from you."

He paused for a moment. "I thought we were safe, of course, that's always when it starts to go wrong. You become complacent, you fail to see those plotting in a corner to take it all away from you again."

Abruptly, he seemed to collect himself

Desmond took a breath, felt the damp warmth of the jungle mix with the scents of death from so long ago. "What do you want?" he asked uncertainly. It had never happened like this before. The memories came and they tore him from his life into another. They were never like this. They never _talked _to him like this.

Ammar shrugged elegantly. "That you keep driving, of course. You think we all suffered for nothing? That we spilled all that blood through the centuries so you could go and screw it up?"

Desmond growled and turned back around. It wasn't easy manoeuvring the jeep back on track. There was the rustle of silk and the faint scent of oranges. Desmond managed not to flinch when Ammar suddenly leaned forward between the seats.

"I'd probably do better if I wasn't distracted all the time," Desmond muttered.

Ammar laughed. "You'll forget yourself if we don't do that."

"Like that makes any sense," Desmond remarked dryly.

"You are Desmond Miles," Ammar said quietly. "Keep that in mind."

He had to blink against a stab of light in his eyes and was blinded for less than a second, but when he opened his eyes again, he was alone once again and the voices in his head were silent. It nearly choked him, this silence all of a sudden, where previously and for what felt like an eternity, all the voices had been. It left him feeling desolate and lost, he barely remembered how he could have lived most of his life like this, all alone inside his own head.

Desmond took a breath and glanced at the GPS to make sure it was still functioning. It was a relieve to have at least that one last lifeline remaining. He knew it would fail him soon enough, already he had seen the display flicker twice, the numbers dancing uncertainly before they returned to what they were supposed to be.

The second time it happened, Desmond barely startled. He had concluded that, once his ancestors were silent in his mind, they had gone elsewhere rather than leave him. He knew there was no cure for the Bleeding Effect, he had suspected he was insane already and had been for a long time. He couldn't sort it out, he couldn't change it. His vision was edged with blood sometimes, but there was nothing he could do about that either.

The twilight was dipping into darkness again already and he wasn't sure where all the hours had gone to. Had he really been driving through this jungle for so long, lost in the tunnel of road right in front of him? It was so easy to believe that time had stopped, stood still, while in truth it seemed to have run away from him.

He stopped the car and waited for the droning in his ears to settle. A bird cried somewhere in the distance, then there was silence again.

Catching movement from the corner of his eye, he found Maria in the passenger seat. She was a small woman with a nondescript face and Desmond knew he was being shallow but Maria _really _didn't look like anything much. Except he remembered other things, overwhelming Desmond's own assessment with tidal force and the loss suddenly _burned_. He wanted to reach out to her, touch her and Desmond thought he had never been in love, because he had never felt anything like this for anyone at all. This was beyond words, almost beyond emotion, going too deep and he had no business feeling that for a woman he had never met.

Desmond stared at the hands in front of him, clutched as they still were on the steering wheel.

"I have a question," he said slowly.

"Don't you just," Maria said. He saw her make an impatient gesture with one hand.

"I…" Desmond began and faltered. It was momentarily too difficult to even think. "I wonder why you and Altaïr kept fighting?"

Because he remembered it clear enough. Love had never been _easy _between them, Desmond knew that much, shared enough of it to be certain.

Maria snorted indignantly. "What do you think? Because fights happen when two pigheaded people get too close. It doesn't mean…" she stopped. Briefly and Desmond wondered if he could reach out for her, touch her somehow across all of time and space between them.

"But wasn't it difficult?" he asked instead. It all got to muddled in his mind, all the different sensibilities through the centuries, all the differing ideas of what love was, how it was supposed to feel like.

"We never tried to change each other," she said simply. "Never asked for a surrender. That's what it really means. To love. It's the ultimate form of freedom, not that enslavement they try to sell you with a wedding ring."

Desmond unclenched his hands from the wheel, tried to relax into his seat and look at her, fighting back the sense of love and loss that wasn't his own.

Maria gave him a smile. She turned around in her seat, folded one leg up under her, let an arm dangle over the backrest. "I remember when I first started training with the Assassins, there was not one who would fight me. Not _seriously. _They were uncomfortable going against a woman, and the Master's wife on top of it."

"I…" Desmond began, narrowing his eyes as if that could make it all more clear. "I… know."

He takes Maria into the training ring, so very angry with his own brothers, so very annoyed with having to do this. He cannot hold back against her, can he? She wants to be taken seriously and she deserves no less, he'll gladly sit back and watch her carve up everyone who would deny her. He has crossed blades with her before, he knows what she can do, how hard a serious fight will be for both of them. What is a man to do, then? Protect and betray her or respect and hurt her?

Maria groaned. "God, I hated Masyaf in the beginning."

"You stayed," Desmond said.

She shrugged dismissively. "Where would I have gone?" she asked. "I've found my home when I found you."

Desmond's heart lurched, pulled so tight he could barely breath. He was just looking back at her, so very afraid of the truth of her, of her having died so very long ago. That she would vanish again, in the blink of an eye the way Ammar had done.

"I am not Altaïr," Desmond pointed out, but he barely heard himself, his voice had become thin as it forced its way past the lump in his throat.

Maria looked at him for a long moment, he felt her attention on him, searching, contemplating what he just had said. Maria laughed, put her head to the side. She reached out with one hand and put it on his arm. Her touch felt unbearably real, not like a hallucination at all. Warm and solid and alive.

"I figured," she said with another smile. "That's why I'll indulge myself and be a mother. You need to eat something, little one. And see that you get a good night's rest before you get going tomorrow."

Maria moved again, leaned forward and shifted her hand from his arm to his face, pulled him until he was looking at her from widened eyes. He could barely bear it.

"You tell him when you see him next," she said. "You tell him I will always forgive him."

* * *

In Tassamlé, what remained of the Templars drew back to the town-hall, keeping a tight circle around it. All soldiers who remained outside stayed with their backs to the wall and within sight of each other. Armed to teeth and still with superior numbers, they now seemed to huddle together like lost children in the dark. They had tried to create open spaces around the town-hall, had cleared the square of vehicles and even cleaned out the alleyway where Lucy had entered the hall earlier.

Flat on her belly on a roof, Lucy looked through the crosshair of her sniper rifle, observing the Templars' movements and their anxious glances. She wondered if Meghan had done as Altaïr had suggested and taken control of the Templars, if she had somehow managed to put herself back together in order to do that. Did it make a difference, though? If these were different Templars now, if Meghan could sway those few of them, what else might she do? Something would change in the war, for better or for worse, Lucy could not tell. Altaïr would never have done anything that endangered the Assassins, at least not on purpose.

She leaned back, glanced to the side, at the other roof, where Altaïr was and the one beyond, with Shaun.

Desmond had been gone for hours now. Rebecca had tried to give him a working phone, but all her attempts had failed. Whatever signal managed to override the magnetic field's interference got lost in the jungle, swallowed by the measureless green of it. Rebecca suspected that some energy from the near temple made this effect worse, but there was nothing that could be done either way.

Lucy looked down and tensed. She just hoped this was going to work.

The low sun was at Ezio's back painted his shadow across the paved ground of the square, pitch-black against the warm orange stone. He seemed to grow from it, tall and just as dark, still in the spider silk of the Templars' combat gear. He walked in a subtle air of menace, deliberate steps full of confidence. Completely at ease in the face of his enemies, and seemingly to draw the very silence of Tassamlé around him like a cloak.

The Templars, their eyes drifting around the rooftops, scanning the street openings for some sort of looming, threatening shadow, noticed him the moment he entered the square. This was a calculated risk, there was no telling how the Templars might react, no certainty as to who was now leading them and what they would do in a situation like this.

Short of open battle, there was very little they could do now to keep the Templars from Desmond's tracks and an open battle entailed risk and danger, not of death, but of failure and that wasn't any more an option now than it had ever been.

The Templars did not attack Ezio as he approached and their postures were wary and alert, but flawed with insecurity, too many quick glances at their comrades, even more searching looks along the rooftops.

Yes, Ezio thought, the enemy is there, you just can't see him. You never could.

He stopped his advance, far enough away so they wouldn't feel threatened, and waited for them to make up their minds. He saw the movement from the corner of his eye, one of the Templars beside the door stepped forward, pulling his rifle from his shoulder as he did and the soldiers closest to him began following his example, grateful that _someone _had made a decision.

A line of shots cut through the air, drew a line in the plaster in front of their feet and sent tiny rock splinters into the air. The Templars stuttered back, half-crouched without any cover.

"I came to talk," Ezio said in English. His accent was heavier than it had been for centuries but it couldn't hurt to remind them in whose presence they now stood. Who _else _had come to Tassamlé to hunt them.

The Templars closest by the door drew together, hesitating, clearly still considering some kind of attack, but before they had the chance to make another foolhardy attempt — to be shot down by Altaïr, judging from the direction of the first shots — the door opened and three people stepped out.

"Stand down," one of them growled at the Templars. He was a tall man, weathered and grim, with the looks of someone who was slowly discovering where his limits truly were. Beside him was a woman, middle-aged and with all the bearings of a professional soldier. And between them, smaller than either, looking worn and tired well past human endurance, was Meghan.

It was the other woman who spoke. She said, "What do you want, Assassin?"

Ezio smiled a little. "To talk," he said simply. "There is no need to kill each other."

The woman frowned. "Are you offering a truce?" she asked.

"No," Ezio said, more harshly. "I'm telling you to leave. Pack up your things, take your cars and your helicopter and go."

"Why would we do that?" the man interrupted, somewhat impatiently.

Ezio stared at him, stared him _down _until the man could hold out no longer and flickered his gaze away. Ezio looked back at the other woman. "Because if you don't, you will all die."

"You are bluffing," the man muttered under his breath, but wouldn't meet Ezio's eye again.

"Do you really think that?" Ezio asked quietly. The sun was harsh out here in the open, even this late in the day, it burned through the black of his shirt, cast his tanned skin in bronze and his eyes golden. Altaïr had gambled his life on the power of such images, on legends accidentally grown through the centuries. Surely the Templars had never meant to give their enemies this kind of power over their imagination? The line of thought painted itself across the older woman's stark features and Ezio knew she would refuse, would try to reclaim herself against the impossibility of his existence. She would shatter them all if she did, would push this fragile balance until it toppled.

"I have hunted you before," Ezio said. "There is nothing you can do to save yourselves." He stepped aside, made a slow sweeping gesture with both arms. "Unless you leave."

He turned away fully, glanced back over his shoulder. "You have until nightfall."

* * *

He is fifteen years old and the mud cakes his boots to nearly the knees. It has been raining for days, but it hasn't stopped the people to turn out in numbers, coming in from the outlying farms, crawling from their homes like rats. He feels angry, it chokes him and he doesn't know if it's anger or panic he feels. His father is by his side a whore's long-nailed hand lies on his shoulder to anchor him. Of course the people will come out to see the hanging. If there weather were any better, they would turn it into a festival, with dancing and music to celebrate death.

Across time and distance, Desmond looks up at the gallows and the memory of Ezio shudders involuntarily. For Desmond, the memories never fade, they never change, they are always fresh wounds and never become scar tissue. For him, it is always _now. _He will forever stand on that square in Florence, rendered so helpless in the face of what is about to be taken from him. Instead of Florence, he stands here on a muddy road, watching the people, cheering and jeering.

His father looks at him and Desmond recognises him, even if Joseph's face has changed, weathered now and he looks like Altaïr and Ezio and his own face in the mirror. Desmond feels his body shaking — here or then, he can no longer tell — and Joseph leaves his side as the sheriff and his entourage approaches.

Georgia looks tired. Her hair is stringy and her face is full of bruises and cuts. He has been to see her only a few days ago and she had been fine. Something has been done to here in that cells and in the night. Joseph's rage bleeds into his son and into Desmond, asleep as he is in the back of the jeep.

Joseph breaks through the crowd and Ezio jubilated. He wanted to follow, but the whore's hand was unrelenting. He looks at her, her painted face and sad eyes. She says, "Let him." She pauses, looks past him and at the beaten woman. "Let her."

"But…" Desmond objects and Ezio is furious. The whore shakes her head. "Watch it. Remember it. Some have always been meant to be lost."

So he looks away and tries not to shiver. The cold is climbing up his legs and a few new drops of rain begin to fall. They sting his eyes and he has to blink them away.

Joseph stands on the road, in an open circle formed around him. He is not armed. He has no intention of fighting and the sheriff seems to see it, too, motions for his deputies to stop. Georgia sways, but grows still when she sees Joseph.

"You don't want to be in my way," the sheriff says.

"I'm not in your way," Joseph says. "I'm only saying goodbye."

The sheriff hesitates and Ezio hisses and snarls in indignation at the back of Desmond's head. It feels almost strong enough to crawl back in time, through their genetic link and make the boy shake free finally, throw himself forward. He swallows, but the lump in his throat won't go away.

The sheriff nods his assent and Joseph steps forward, carefully measured steps until he is face to face with Georgia and her handcuffed, bruised form. She draws herself up, stands as tall as she once did and Desmond feels her gather the last of her strength, all the remnants of her willpower. She leans forward, towards Joseph as far as the deputy will let her. They do not kiss, but their lips almost touch and she says something, a handful of words and Joseph only holds her gaze.

"We are done," the sheriff announces. Joseph holds his ground for a long moment, daring the sheriff to strike out at him. The challenge goes unanswered and Joseph relents. If there ever had been a different way, he would have taken it, but he cannot save her now. He remains where he is, only turns on his heels to watch as she is led to the gallows. The strength she has found doesn't desert her again. Her head tall against all the wounds and a hush settles over the crowd as they placed the noose around her neck. She says nothing at all, no last words, no declaration of love or hate and as she falls, the silenced crowd breaks into cheers.

Joseph comes back to his son, meets the whore's eyes briefly.

"What do we do now?" she asks.

"Now," Joseph says and he fixes his gaze on something past the crowd. "We avenge her."

When Desmond woke, it was still dark. The sounds of a nighttime jungle were dulled inside the jeep and it was darker here. Not the dark of a city, not even the dark of a village or even the Farm all those years ago in the desert. This darkness had substance and texture.

There was someone sitting opposite him, watching him. Desmond frowned. He wasn't startled, not really. Not when all his senses told him he was _safe _in Maria's presence, letting all his defences down, because there was nothing to fear.

Desmond groaned and threw an arm across his eyes. "This is getting ridiculous," he announced. "No one told me insanity would be like this."

"You aren't sleeping," Maria pointed out reasonably enough.

"You aren't real," Desmond countered. "And we can't possibly be having this conversation."

She laughed and Desmond really wished Altaïr's feelings for that woman weren't as strong, they were intrusive, overwhelming, making it even harder for Desmond to think.

"So and tomorrow you'll drive for hours with no rest," she made a show of glancing out the window. "Lots of trees to hit, you know. One second of inattention and _wham!_ all for nothing."

"So?" Desmond asked. He pushed himself up on his elbows. "What are you going to do about it?"

He found the laptop Rebecca had given him and opened it, watching as the light of the screen sluggishly came to life. It flickered with the shifting of the magnetic field and the programme Rebecca had written told him the interference was on the decline and he might — or might not, after all, because Rebecca hadn't been able to figure out the rhythm — be able to call them. The question was, should he? He had no idea what had happened in Tassamlé after he had left, he didn't know if the Templars still posed a threat. They could use his signal to track him, couldn't they?

In the stark light, he saw Maria as she stretched her legs out, leaned back with her arms crossed over her chest, glaring at him and he had to suppress a smirk. Sometimes, it paid to leave her hanging a little…

A window opened on the screen and adjusted itself with some reluctance until the interference faded from the image.

"Desmond?" Lucy's face came into view. The angle was awkward, from her lap upward to her face and the dimly lit room above and behind her.

"Yeah," he said. "Sorry, I didn't look at the time."

Lucy gave him a grin and the connection was still bad enough that he couldn't be sure of her expression, whether it was honest joy or hysterics. From somewhere off screen, Rebecca made herself heard, "Couple of minutes, Lucy. _Hey Desmond!"_

Lucy nodded, then looked back and sobered a little. "Is everything all right?" she asked.

Desmond resisted to look up at where Maria was draping herself over his luggage, propping herself up on an elbow.

"I'm fine," he said dismissively. "Just couldn't sleep."

Lucy eyed him and even through the connection Desmond could tell she was about to object. The image flickered and she seemed to collect her thoughts. "We are receiving bits and pieces of news. My message got through, Desmond."

Images floated through his mind, of battlefields full of blood and carnage and for once he felt no revulsion — felt revulsion _no longer, _perhaps, and that didn't bode too well — his ancestors had _owned _these places. His world, though, his world had never been meant to be a battlefield.

"What happened?" he asked.

Lucy looked away for a moment, at something behind the screen perhaps. She nodded, then looked back at Desmond. "The Assassin cells that were still hidden have come forward, attacked whatever Templars were closest to them. There was… there _is _still fighting in the streets of dozens of cities. Shanghai is a war-zone now. In Mexico City, two Abstergo skyscrapers were brought down and the city is in flames." She trailed off, hesitating. "We have not to the numbers to sustain such an effort. We are burning out, Desmond."

He frowned and Maria pushed herself further up, attentive now rather than bored.

"Is that necessary?" he asked slowly.

"There will not be any reinforcements coming," she said. "We have Tassamlé now and you are safe from pursuit to get where you need to go."

Something again distracted her and Ezio walked behind her, leaned down over her shoulder. "We built them to last," he said in Italian. "Once this is over, we can rebuild."

Desmond didn't believe him, moreover, the memory of Ezio didn't quite believe him. Ezio knew these things mattered to Desmond and however else he might appear, Ezio was old, in the same way that Altaïr was old.

Desmond shrugged. "No point in going back, anyway," he said reluctantly.

Ezio smiled, moved back from the screen, just as the screen went completely black for no more than a second.

"Shit, connection is going down," Lucy said. "Safety and peace, De—"

"Yeah," he said in the darkness. "Not fucking likely."

"And does that not let your heart beat faster?" Maria inquired. "Not even a little?"

He stared hard at her dark shape. "It does," he said honestly. "But that's not me, that's everybody else in my head." He snapped the laptop closed and set it aside. He stood up and climbed to the front of the car, switched on the lights to search for the GPS tracker where it had fallen to the ground when he had stopped.

"People are dying out there for me," he added, just to make the point. "People who have never met me, who _will _never meet me. I can't thank them or tell them to stop or anything."

"It's their lives," Maria said. "It's their choices."

"Really?" Desmond asked back. "I mean, _really? _What Assassin refuses that sort of order?"

Maria laughed quietly, Desmond felt her presence fading and somewhere, his heart was breaking all over again, just as he had known would happen. Maria said, "An Assassin takes orders from no one."

* * *

Rebecca hissed in pain and tried to pull herself up. Lucy looked across the room to watch as Ezio said, "No, you don't," and placed a hand on her shoulder to push her back down.

"I can't see what he's doing with my computer!" Rebecca complained.

"And I can't dress your wound if you keep fiddling about," he said reasonably.

Rebecca growled in frustration, but tried to relax. Her gunshot wound looked bad. Tearing it open again and the need to renew the stitches had left the skin around it enflamed and sensitive. It felt swollen, too. It looked like some kind of infection. They had raided a doctor's surgery here in Tassamlé for the materials. A pity they found a doctor, too. Lucy hadn't asked for Ezio's qualification when he had simply assumed the role. He seemed to know what he was doing, at least, and Rebecca's sickly pallor still worried Lucy more than anything.

"Just imagine how much fun it wouldn't be if it was the other way around," Ezio said. "Altaïr once stitched me up. I should show you the scar sometime."

Altaïr didn't even look up from where he sat behind Rebecca's computer. "You had ruptured a femoral artery, there wasn't time to consider aesthetics."

Ezio chuckled. "I could still show you my scars," he offered with a grin.

Rebecca grimaced from the pain as Ezio carefully cleaned around the wound. Staring at the ceiling, she said, "I just may take you up on that, it'd be only fair if both of us had to undress." Because in order for him to get to her wound, her shirt was pulled up to her breasts and her pants down to her hips. His touch, however, was completely impersonal, warm and gentle, but professional.

Ezio chuckled again. "Mind you, I may have to restrain you to prevent you from opening the stitches again."

She said nothing for a moment. "So what _is_ he doing on my computer?"

It was Lucy who answered. "Hacking a satellite and yours is the most powerful computer we have. I want to contact headquarters. It worries me that we haven't heard anything from them at all."

"I still think that's a bad idea," Ezio remarked. He had and Lucy had overruled him, not without feeling a little strange at doing so. If Ezio had forced the issue, she was sure she would have relented eventually. Both, Altaïr and Ezio, were outside of normal Assassin hierarchy, but that didn't mean either of them had ever truly relinquished his right to lead. Ezio had shrugged and let it go and Altaïr had not commented at all, keeping his reasons to himself. He had, however, offered to see what could be done with the connection, which Lucy took as a sign of assent. Altaïr working the computers also meant Rebecca wouldn't have to sit up, lessening the strain on her wound.

Lucy looked back down at the screen past Altaïr's shoulder, tried to follow what he was doing, but it was as tough as it was with Rebecca. Too much happening at once, too many windows opened and too many variables flickering through all of them. Lucy could detect the baseline for the frequency and the measurement of interference, but the numbers meant little to her.

Another window opened, showing a black space for a moment.

"Here," Altaïr said and stood up, left the seat for her. "Not a secure connection, by any means. As stable as I could get it, but it's makeshift, it'll not hold."

Lucy nodded and took his seat. It took another long minute until anything happened. First there was sound.

" - - ceiving you," a badly mangled voice said. "- - -wh - - this?"

"I'm Lucy Stillman," Lucy said, leaned a little to the side to give Altaïr access to the keyboard and a few adjustments. The black flickered and turned into the image of a young man. Lucy recognised him vaguely from her brief time at headquarters before she had gone to work for Abstergo.

The young man watched her, did something at his own computer and the image finally stabilised. A deeper voice spoke from the side, "Lucy Stillman?"

The young man nodded and vacated his seat. Another man took his place, not quite as young with stark pale hair and piercing eyes. "I'm Albin," he said, although Lucy knew him immediately. A Master Assassin of rare skill and some repute within the order. "I'm the Mentor now."

She hesitated for only a moment. There was no telling what had happened, there was so little news that reached them out here. "What's happening?" she asked.

Albin frowned through the link. "Hell is happening," he said. "Do you know what you did?"

"I had no choice," Lucy said. "I had to protect Desmond and this entire operation."

"You weren't authorised for that kind of decision," Albin said sternly. "There will be consequences, when we get through this. _If _we get through this."

He gave her no time to defend herself, but added. "I'm calling them back, but it's difficult, we can't reach them all. Their deaths are on your head, I want you to know that."

Lucy stared. She didn't know what to say. Of course she had always known her decision was risky and might not meet with approval. Somehow, she had simply assumed they would agree with her assessment, with her priorities. "I thought…" she began.

Albin shook his head sharply. "Yes, but there are things too big for you to understand, things at play you cannot possibly comprehend. You should have waited, Lucy, until we could contact you."

"There was no time!" Lucy insisted. "There was no…"

Albin lifted his hand to still her. "Yes, I know and the damage is already done. We shall see what can be saved. We'll talk about your punishment when there is time."

Lucy opened her mouth. "Listen…" she tried again and remembered something else, something far more important. "You can't recall the cells! The Templars would come here! We can't hold them off alone!"

For the first time, Albin looked genuinely angry. "Enough of this, Lucy. You _will_ trust in your master."

There was a faint, quiet snarl close to her ear and she almost startled. She hadn't even noticed that Altaïr had returned to her side, she might even have missed him completely even so, had not Albin reacted, too, confusion furrowing his brow. Altaïr leaned forward for the keyboard and even from the side, Lucy saw the cold fury in his gaze.

"No," Altaïr said and broke the connection.

* * *

The world tilted sideways, changed and reformed. Desmond just barely managed to hit the brakes and stop the jeep. He clenched his hands around the wheel, willing it to stay solid instead of dissolving under his grip. He heard a fountain sprinkling somewhere nearby, a garden coming alive around him and a star-strewn velvet sky above. He felt… _lost_…

And then, suddenly, he is not. He is holding a woman in his arms who is trying very hard not to shake in fright. She pushes him off, bares her teeth. She has cried but now her eyes are dry and determined. She shakes free of his hands. "I will not go!" she snaps. "I will not give them the satisfaction!"

Anger is trying to force itself to the forefront of his mind, adrenaline beating hard in his veins from a fight just past. He feels sick from what he has just seen, from what he can too easily imagine is going on in the streets even now. He has been in too many fights already, he knows and understands bloodshed well enough, but this is something else entirely. He is afraid and the emotion is novel and unwelcome.

"So you'll give them the satisfaction of killing you, instead?" he asks sharply. "Drag you naked through the streets? What do you think will happen to your son?"

It shakes her for a moment, makes her shiver in indecision. Desmond glances past her, through the garden and he stares at the stone so hard he might as well have looked right through the wall to watch the slaughter unfold outside. "I made a promise to protect you," he says.

"You never make promises, Ammar," she shoots back. "I thought that was your principle."

He hesitates. He has no time to bare his soul to her and no desire to do so even if he did. He reaches for her, closes his hand around her upper arm with more force than strictly necessary. "I made this one," he says quietly. "And you won't break it for me."

* * *

_Bird of the broad and sweeping wing,_

_Thy home is high in heaven,_

_Where wide the storms their banners fling,_

_And the tempest clouds are driven._

_— James Gates Percival, To The Eagle_

* * *

**Author's Note:** I had monumental problems with this chapter. It resisted me. I hope it doesn't show too badly. Also, difficult writing usually makes my spelling go down and I don't have a beta any longer. Let me know if its completely unreadable or something, I did my best.

**A very special thanks to Shadow Chaser for being an amazing conversationalist, author of "Apotheosis" (go read!) and for suggesting I use the Battlestar Galactica soundtrack to write by.**


	20. L'Homme y Passe à Travers des Forêts

**Gah! I have trouble with formatting, I _think_ it's fixed now, but if it's iffy somehow, let me know! **

* * *

**Notes: **Names 'Tam' and 'Ishtheret' derived from Tammuz and Ishtar. 'Sirahidaa' is meant to be a variant of Sidon.

The feminine of 'Atlas' is 'Atlantis', therefore...

Recall, if you will, the first dream Desmond has of the lion and the eagle in chapter 4.

There is an idea here that's not mine. It was taken from Shadow Chaser's Apotheosis. Pointing it out, however, would spoil that story.

* * *

**Chapter 20: L'Homme y Passe à Travers des Forêts de Symboles**

Altaïr's body was like finely tuned machinery, where every muscle and every nerve was honed to flawless symmetry, all poised for strength and lightning reflexes and the death he brought. Lucy didn't know whether he had always been like this, she had had only glimpses of him, after all, meaningless snapshots of a short portion of his life. Maybe he had been honed into this, sharpened through all the centuries of existence. Neither explanation would have surprised, nor the realisation that he was not fully human, with alien blood in his veins to augment whatever other skills he had. Or perhaps he had always been like this and had come through the centuries unchanged.

She had folded herself over him, head resting on his chest where she could just barely hear the sound of his heartbeat as it slowed down to normal while her own blood was still rushing madly in her own ears. He wasn't built to be a comfortable pillow, but he he was reassuringly warm and alive under her. It always was different with him, this was not part of hiding from reality at all, it didn't leave her mellowed, not when everything about him was a reminder of where they all where, of all the things lost and gone through time and all the battles yet to come.

Lucy took a breath, let herself slide away to the side. Jungle warmth was pressing all around them, thick like a blanket and the thin sheen of sweat wasn't drying between them. She settled herself with her head resting against his shoulder, one arm and leg still thrown across his body. Strands of her pale hair draped over his chest in sharp contrast.

Sound and movement seemed muffled in the twilight created by the closed shutters locking out the sharp glare of the sun. The wood was old, riddled with slashes and a few rays of sunlight cut right through, thin, bright lines, painted like flying arrows.

Altaïr shifted a little and she watched him twist a strand of her hair in his fingers. It seemed an oddly normal gesture for one such as him, jarring her a little, even after all that had happened.

Lucy said, "I really thought they would understand."

"You upset the balance they created to protect themselves," he said. "You endangered the Brotherhood in ways it hasn't been for centuries."

She went still against him, thinking for a long moment, trying to decipher his calm tone.

"I thought you agreed with me."

She tested the thought for a moment, then added, "You stood with me. And Ezio…" she trailed off. Ezio had all but told her to go ahead with her plan, though without knowing what it was. In a way, she supposed, she had considered herself cleared, with both of them seemingly on her side. How could she have ever conceived of the possibility that the current leadership would disagree? Worse still, try to recall her orders. She could almost see them, in her inner eye, scurrying back to their hiding places, frantic in search for lost obscurity.

She closed her eyes, tried to snuggle a little closer. "Have I made a mistake?"

Had she gone and condemned them all, sacrificed everything they had achieved in centuries? Were they really dying on her word and a simple miscalculation borne of desperation and the feeling that time was ticking away, flowing away from them like so much water, too fast and elusive to hold on to? Had she acted rashly, had there been a different way?

She remembered what she had told Desmond, about the Assassins burning out for his sake. For a very long time, the possibility of defeat had been with them, had been with them from the start, she supposed, for in what war was this not the case? But it had always been a more distant fear. Of course, sometimes people died, sometimes entire cells went silent without warning and sometimes they were forced to make a narrow escape to more welcoming turfs, but it had never been like this. Were they dying in troves now, out there in the world?

She had dragged their secret war out in the open to shrivel and burn in the daylight they had shunted for so long. There was always a chance — one she had thought negligible — that by exposing them like this, she had offered the entire Brotherhood up on a silver platter to be picked off and destroyed at leisure.

And worse still, if Albin succeeded in calling them back, would the Templars remember Tassamlé and send their forces here, all their might, now roused, aimed at this one place?

She had wanted to shield Desmond from that truth, unwilling to burden him with more that he could not change, just more strain on his fraying mind. Somehow though, it was too large to keep from him, too important. Perhaps trying to protect him had been the mistake from the start, insecurity and confusion damaging his mind even more. When answers were denied him in this reality, he would look elsewhere for explanations and reassurances. And these were Assassins they had woken in his mind. There was Altaïr and Ezio, pushed to the front and all their merciless brilliance and there doubtlessly were others now, with ready-made answers from age-old lives.

"We are warriors at war," Altaïr said, as if it was the answer she had wanted to hear.

She looked up, but couldn't see his face from this angle, not well enough to read his expression. She reached out for his hand, freed her hair from fingers and cupped his hand with hers, feeling along the stump. She had always wanted to ask how it had felt, how it had been done. There was very little scar tissue there, it didn't look like a wound, or an accident. The finger hadn't simply been hacked off, it had been removed with some care. She wondered if he still sometimes felt it.

"Yes," she said. "But was I _wrong?" _

"Time will tell," he said in the same quiet tone.

She frowned. "You know, that's not the answer I was looking for."

He laughed. "You can worry about Albin when the time comes, not before."

"So I forced us into another war?" she asked, suddenly terrified for a completely different reason.

"I met Albin, once," Altaïr said. "Right before Denver. He is a good man, but he is not a leader. He'll do in times of crisis, but I doubt he will last."

"You could take the leadership back," Lucy said. "I don't think there'd be much objection." Not anymore, anyway, not with what she had done to them all. There was something more that she could barely put into words, picturing him at the head of some Assassin army, come at long last to set the world finally free.

He said, "I can't do that."

"Why not?" she asked. "Would Albin truly dare stand against you?"

A quick laugh. "Not for long, but that is not the point."

Lucy thought for a moment, remembered the subtle change that had happened between him and Ezio, the almost-not-there, but lingering coldness that hadn't existed before. They talked and even occasionally joked, but it seemed reflexive and artificial.

"Because Ezio wants the position?" She felt the surprise running through him, startled and amused and it was her turn to laugh. "Did you think I didn't notice? Something happened and there is no unity between you anymore, no connection. If I had Eagle Vision, I'm sure I could see it."

He shook his head slowly. "You misunderstand me. It has nothing to do with what I — or Ezio — want. We are both going to die."

She was sheathed in warmth, skin to heated skin in the afterglow, but suddenly her blood ran cold and her body pulled tense enough to snap.

Calmly, Altaïr said, "I still remember the deal I made with the Apple. I wanted to be here, to bring Ezio into the battle, because I alone wasn't going to be enough. But we were both never meant to walk away. When Desmond finds the temple and saves us, the deal is done."

She pulled away from him, wanting to see his face, to look into his eyes, but he didn't let her go. Instead he tightened his grip around her waist and turned them both around, pushed her back into the pillows and pulled himself up on outstretched arms above her. It occurred to her that he looked different than his own memories had painted him, not wildly but still changed, altered. In his own mind, his face was harsher, more gaunt and predatory; in his mind, nothing softened his features, not the sensual curve of his lips or the dark lashes that would rest against his cheeks when he slept. His eyes were bright, though, in all realities and perspectives, cast in metal now as well as ever.

"There is no tragedy here," he said. "No loss or defeat. I've been dying before, remember. There comes a time when you realise that everything you do, you do it for the last time. Can you imagine what a single gulp of water tastes like when you know it will be the last you'll ever drink?"

He leaned closer, making her breath catch in her throat.

"What a kiss tastes like?"

For all his proficiency with words he was, at the core of him, a man of actions and deeds. She had never been kissed like this and she knew she would never again be kissed like this; everything he was, put into a single touch, an entire lifetime compressed into only one, brief, endless instant.

* * *

Desmond has been to this place before, though it feels different now. He is lying on white sand and the sky above him has bleed into red and it looks like a gorgeous sunset even though he knows its the glow from the weapon, deployed on Sirahidaa, a small settlement of a few thousand people. He knows that his lover has been there, dead now in the blast, but he is too confused to summon any kind of feeling at all. He is lying on sand, but as his consciousness slowly ebbs back into his mind, he realises that he is not, that the sand was a lie his subconsciousness has conjured to keep him sane, because he is lying on corpses. On comrades and allies and friends, intermingled with slain enemies into a pile of bloodied limbs and spilled guts. In the heat, the smell is tangible, wafting about him and for a moment he wonders if he is dead as well and death simply was never what they said it was.

As he lies there, under the heat and glare of the distant weapon, his mind slowly clears. Pain follows in the wake of growing awareness. He feels like his been skinned alive, bones broken and shattered in his entire body and his muscles ripped into shards. He _knows _he is alive, he knows he has survived the battle, but he can't bring himself to move. He is tired and empty, burned out and even the reassuring, tight weight of the talons at his wrists don't give him back any strength the way they usually do. There is sound, faint, distant, other survivors perhaps, struggling with their plight. If only they were quiet, then he could close his eyes and rest, finally, allow himself to fall and fade away from all this suffering.

And then he hears it, distantly at first but getting closer. It makes his blood run cold suddenly, sends new lives through dying limbs. He remembers Ishtheret glowering at him across the room, like the soothsayer she sometimes tried to be pretend to be, saying, "You are a pain, Tam. You just don't know when to die." He wants to die, actually, here and now, before their pets find him and tear him apart for sure. How cruel a people must become, to let lose their vicious and armoured pet lions on a battlefield to devour all the survivors?

The sniffing comes closer and suddenly, the lion is on him. Its black fur hidden behind a layer of armour, as solid as stone and as flexible as leather. He screams as the steel-tipped claws bite into his shoulders and the maw opens wide in front of his face. Rank breath washes over him, drags him back into reality, strangely enough and he remembers his own claws, still strung to his wrists as if they had grown from his very flesh. He lashes upward, against the pain in his body and the tearing in his shoulders. The lion catches one hand in his mouth, bites down hard on the glove, the tips of the teeth just barely making it through to prink the feverish skin beneath. He screams, in pain and defiance, frees his shoulder enough so he can strike with his other hand, tears the blade into the lion's mouth, rips open the side of it and the animal keens suddenly in shock, lets go of his hand.

He pulls himself up, against the weight of the armoured beast, doesn't wait, doesn't even think, just smashes forward with both hands, through the open maw and into the back of its throat. The talons cut deep, deep enough to reach the brain and even though its sheer luck rather than skill, it dies too fast, it can't even snap its mouth closed and take off both his hands.

Panting, he lies still under the dead lion for a long time, buried now more than ever with his fallen companions. Ishtheret's words echo in his head and down the centuries. _You just don't know when to die. _He struggles free finally, against the pain and the tiredness and the leaden, tempting call of death. He finds the strength to stand, somewhere, is surprised his body can even do that anymore. It's getting dark around him and the cold comes in like another conquering army, the colour of the sky tints darker, bloody-red. He wants to go to Sirahidaa, wants to make sure there are no survivors, but he already knows. Nothing survived there and nothing will be able to live there for a very long time to come.

Slowly, he sets out for another direction, the only survivor from the battle and feeling like a traitor for it.

Desmond opened his eyes and watched the thin sparkles of sky he could see through the canopy of leaves above him. It takes a while until he can recapitulate where he was — who he was — and what he was doing before he fell asleep. The road had turned away from him, leading off to the west when the GPS pointed him further north. He had left the car, wedged into off into the thicket at the side of the road and hidden it as well he could. It wouldn't be difficult to find for anyone coming this way, who knew what they were looking for, but there was nothing else he could do about that. He had taken his equipment and the machete and walked into the jungle. It had been slower than he had imagined, sapping his strength in ways he hadn't anticipated. It was hot and strenuous and tiring. The jungle seemed to lap at him, snatch at his arms and shoulders and head as if it was trying to push him back. He had found a milestone a few hours in, at the centre of a small clearing, open space so unusual for the jungle he had had to cross to get there. He had decided to rest there, set up camp and regain some of his strength. He remembered leaning back against the milestone and closing his eyes…

He had curled to the side at some point, the milestone still pressed against his back. He groaned and moved, then winced at sudden stinging pain on his collarbone. He looks down in an awkward angle, to see the welts his own nails had left on his skin. "Ah shit," he grumbled. He sat up straight, breathed a little. He should get some disinfect on the scratches, just to be on the save side, but it could wait a few more minutes.

He breathed in deeply, letting the rich jungle air drive away the remembered stench of messy death. He frowned across the open space.

"I didn't know that was a real battle," Desmond said. He remembered the wayfarer from his dreams, remembered how he felt like, but he had never seen him this clearly before. Tam looked back at him and it was disconcerting. There was Altaïr in that face, the same cheekbones and strong nose. The quirk of Ezio's mouth when he couldn't decide whether to smile of smirk. Desmond saw himself there, a faint and distant echo. Tam's skin was darker, a dusted and tanned cinnamon colour; dark hair set in tight curls, eyes painted black, making their gold even sharper. He looked alien and removed, some science fiction idea of an Egyptian god, poised like snake ready to strike, haloed by the green of the jungle behind him.

He arched a brow. "There were others," he said dismissively. "But they used my memory as key for the code. A private joke, I'm sure. Enemies, even former ones, can be vindictive. But I'm not petty, so I left them their illusions. Those memories cannot hurt me any longer."

_They are doing a fine job of hurting me, _Desmond thought sourly, but didn't say aloud.

"Who is Ishtheret?" Desmond asked.

"A woman scorned," Tam said and shrugged. "An enemy forced to sit down and talk with us when they realised they wouldn't win the war even if they shred the planet to pieces."

"You fought them?" Desmond asked and felt the memories coming to him through the connection, faint and barely remembered, feelings rather than thought.

Tam chuckled. "I am what you are," he observed. "We all fight our battles, sometimes and by accident, we become heroes. I ended the war, I forced a truce and I got them to talk, but that created a rift among my own people. Not all of them wanted peace. Some wanted us to annihilate our enemies, to ensure that we would never be enslaved again."

Desmond stared at him. "The Templars?"

"No, not yet. The frontlines changed, later, shifted and blended in places and spread newly apart in others," he thought for a moment. When he tilted his head, Desmond saw the edges of a tattoo along his neck, it looked like the tip of a wing. "In the end, there were the Assassins and the Templars, as you understand them. But that happened much later and besides, when we discovered the Sun Cycle all our priorities changed."

"The Sun Cycle?" Desmond repeated and involuntarily looked up at what little he could see of the sky. "Like it happens now?"

"Not if you stop it," Tam said pointedly. "Otherwise where would be the point?" His expression became harder, frosted despite the jungle heat. "They set conditions, of course. Us mere mortal couldn't do it alone and once you rely on someone who think themselves gods you end up paying and paying and _paying. _There were conditions, cheap trickeries and traps laid at every corner. They wanted us gone, even after the treaties were signed."

Desmond eyed him, the razor-sharp deadliness of this ancestor that had carried so well down the centuries. "What do you mean?"

Tam shook his head, bared his teeth in some kind of bad imitation of a smile. "You remember when you dreamt my memories of Sirahidaa?"

Desmond just barely suppressed a shiver, his guts heaving instinctively. "Why?" he asked.

"You were screaming pretty badly," Tam told him laconically. "And sound carries like fuck in the jungle."

They broke from the jungle and Desmond had time to think that, if sound did indeed carry _like_ _fuck _in the jungle, how did he not hear them approach? The point was moot, of course, he had been distracted, not entirely rooted in this reality anyway, so who was he to question? His first, panicked thought that these were the Templars, finally come for him after they had left the others dead back in Tassamlé. His instincts were still good enough to remind him of the difference, even before he startled to his feet and danced away from the milestone to gain some more freedom of movement.

The men who had stepped into the open circle didn't look like Templars. They were dressed for the jungle very much like Desmond himself, but in shabbier gear and worn clothes. Leathered, gaunt faces stared at him with a mixture of bad intent and confusion. He spotted a few of them armed with machetes, had no time to look for guns. His own machete, his knife and his gun were all in with the backpack, a jump away, but beyond his reach anyway. There was the bracer at his wrists, though, hidden under the sleeves that had unrolled in his sleep and hung low over his hands. No need to release the blades and announce their existence, they'd come out fast enough when he got close enough for the kill.

_They are talons, _the memory of Tam sneered as if it mattered what the hell they were called. Desmond tried to shake him off from inside his head. He couldn't handle that now. Doubtlessly, Tam would fight like a demon, but Desmond was not familiar enough with him, would miss and fail because of it. If he could call on Ezio or Altaïr, now that would make the difference. Or he'd just end up screaming on the ground again, maybe confusing his would-be enemies to the point of withdrawing? Tam sneered again and generations of Assassins agreed.

"Look," Desmond began in shaky, foreign command of Spanish that wasn't his own. "I'm just… camping out here."

They eyed him, drew their circle closer. One man stepped forward, young and worn and mean-eyed. "No one goes camping here," he said.

"I…uh," Desmond began, resisting the urge to step back from the other man, back to the milestone to press against its solidity. "I can explain, really. I have no quarrel with you."

The man pulled his teeth back and Desmond felt it, the seconds ready to snap, the violence waiting to break lose. he _knew _there were three men at his back, he couldn't see them, but their presence cut sharply into his perception. It was like premonition painting it out for him, how it all would go down. He could spin away from here, from this lose circle of men surrounding him. He could fly through their ranks. He had the _talons _at his wrists, two would be dead within seconds. He could already see them, strewn around the small clearing, bleeding into the earth. The smell was already in the air, nauseatingly mixed with the stench of so many battlefields.

And Desmond refused. These were not his instincts and not his skills. These were not his morals, either, but in that moment, he couldn't have said what they were instead. He gritted his teeth against the lure, the way his muscles pulled prepared to launch him from his place, the nerve-ends alive like in not other moment.

"I'm really sorry," he said again. "I'm just lost here. I was trying to get back to the road." He spread his arms out, tried a sheepish grin. "My girlfriend dumped me. We were on holiday and she…"

There was movement behind him and it was all Desmond could do not to snatch them man who had come to close, punch him and use him as a shield against the others. It would be so easy…

"What sort of idiot are you?"

Desmond shrugged helplessly.

The men looked at each other, considering and for a moment Desmond saw that they almost believed him, almost let him go. _See? _he thought somewhat triumphantly, _there are other ways. _

Then something hard hit the back of his head and he felt the world tilt, turn a blessed dark and enveloped him, wrapped around him. He felt his face hit the ground, but it didn't register as pain. Dizzy, he lay there for a time, had no idea how to measure it, lost in a storm of voices telling him to _get up! _

Desmond groaned. A weight was on his back, harshly yanking his arms back, fixing them together with something.

"We'll take you to Juan, can't risk anything here," the man told Desmond when he was pulled back to his feet. Desmond blinked slowly, against the bright lights swimming through his vision. He knew he had made a mistake by not resisting these people, whatever brand of criminals they were, they would not let him go again, they couldn't _afford _to let him go again. And now his hands were bound his head was hurting. He stood swaying as they rifled through his things, picked up his backpack and one briefly admired the gleaming edge of the machete. It seemed to wink at Desmond, mocking him and he almost bared his teeth back at it.

A mistake, but one he would willingly repeat over and over again. If he found no way past the slaughter, it would never end, it would just continue, spinning into all eternity. His family had walked battlefields, one after the other, centuries and millennia in the past. He had lived Altaïr's glorious skill, he had flung himself against armies in Ezio's skin and he remembered the heated thrill coursing through their bodies. He didn't doubt their goals, or their motivation, but what fool would charge men like that with making peace?

* * *

Lucy watched as Ezio crossed the roof, long, measured strides and hands tucked casually away in his trouser pockets. It was too easy to picture him, very much like this, on some Venetian rooftop, all those ages ago, the same man, the same fluidity to his movement, the same carelessly controlled strength. Sunset was coming in behind him, painting him in soft red and golden.

"You are early," Lucy said. She had enjoyed her shift, her watch. Since the Templars had gone, it was quiet in Tassamlé, quiet enough to believe that it was genuine peace that had come to this place, had _returned _it after all. She didn't truly want to go inside, didn't want to leave this moment to let it spin away from her like so many other things.

"I wanted to talk," Ezio said slowly. He came to stand by her side, put his hands on the rough concrete of the balustrade and followed the direction of her gaze.

Lucy glanced at him, perhaps a little too fast, too sharply to let a man this perceptive miss the revealing gesture. He said nothing of it, though, merely gave her a quick smile, dazzling, but full of teeth.

"How is Rebecca?" Lucy asked, stalling for time in which she could make up her mind.

"Better, now that she's lying down finally," Ezio answered. Something about his voice told her he had seen right through her, could read her like anyone else he had ever met. Ezio, for all his glamour and the ruthlessness it hid, was no less devious, no less shrewd in what he meant to show or reveal about himself. Perhaps he was playing them all, even Altaïr, in this way, the boyishness of him lingering about him, the easy smiles on his handsome face and the sparkle in his eyes. She had seen him shift into another man, harder and colder than this genteel mien. An Assassin, at the core of him, regardless of what else he might pretend to be.

"Don't worry about Rebecca," Ezio said. "I've seen enough of these wounds, she won't die of this one. _If _she keeps lying down."

"Maybe you should tie her up after all," Lucy suggested, couldn't quite keep the smile from her own face, but it barely reached her eyes.

He shrugged elegantly. "All she has to do is ask."

Lucy looked away from him, across the silent streets of Tassamlé and wondered if she should tell him the truth. Altaïr had made no attempt to swear her to silence, had not even mentioned whether he would prefer to keep it secret at all. Perhaps he even _wanted _her to deliver the news to Ezio, so he wouldn't have to.

"You wanted to talk?" she asked.

Ezio nodded, a calm and powerful presence at her side. He turned around, put his elbows on the concrete and settled back, utterly relaxed.

"Albin," he said simply. "Is an idiot."

"He's the Mentor," Lucy said slowly. "He is the leader. He has a right to have an opinion about what I did."

"He stands for all that is wrong with the order today," Ezio said, not trying to keep the scathing tone from his voice. "They have become rats, scurrying in the dark. I admire what you did, you took a great risk. I didn't think your kind still existed among the Assassins."

She brought her head around, too surprised to do anything else. "There are others," she said, knowing it was a weak argument. She studied his profile, he had tilted his head back, exposing his throat and letting the setting sun paint him in copper contrasts.

"Too few to make a difference," Ezio said simply. "And that is on a good day."

"You agree with what I did?" she asked carefully. Because she had nothing to say to his accusations, nothing with which to counter. Of course she could point them out, the good men and women within the order, risking life, limb and sanity every day and night of their existence. She could tell him their names and their histories and their achievements, but she had the sneaking suspicion that Ezio knew all this already and it hadn't been enough to sway him on the matter.

She saw the smile spread across his face long before he even moved. He shifted again, turned to face her. "You'll have more than just my agreement. If we survive this — and we will — I will be by your side when you face Albin and his punishment."

Lucy stood frozen in place. She had not expected this, not in a hundred years of fairy tales come true and for a moment she believed it, believed the promise and the threat contained therein. Until she remembered what Altaïr had told her, until she remembered that these two Assassins would vanish from their world in the same way they had come into it. She looked away from him, couldn't bear it any other way.

"There is something you must know," she said slowly. "Altaïr…"

He put his hand on her shoulder and she fell silent. "There is always _something _with Altaïr. He has his habits. But whatever he tells you when you are alone, it is only for your ears."

She blinked, slowly, barely comprehending. "You don't understand," she said, rather helplessly.

He raised his brows. "Oh, I will soon enough," he said, made a slight gesture with one hand. "There is no fun if I don't."

She opened her mouth to say it, she wanted and _needed _him to know. She had to thank him for his offer, after all, while there was still time, while he might still hear her. She took a breath, but again he silenced her, coming just an inch too close for comfort. Low, velveteen-voiced, he said, "Don't worry on my account, _mia brava._ Your shift is over, try to get some real sleep this time."

* * *

They were tomb raiders, as much became clear rather quickly. They had set up camp not far from where Desmond had rested, close enough to the road for easy access and transportation using a narrow path cut into the jungle, just wide enough to allow passage for a small truck, Desmond guessed and low-hanging branches would obscure the true purpose.

The men dumped Desmond into an open makeshift shed, tied his feet together as well and went about their business. Desmond remained lying on his side for a while, waited until their attention had truly shifted away from him. They seemed to be taken it quite well, this weird stranger dumped into their midst like this and Desmond wondered how often that happened. He struggled into a sitting position, resting his back against a few old crates and watched the camp.

He was already in Sianahk'ab, he knew, the outskirts of the town, where he had walked with the wayfarer once before. No wonder such hunting grounds attracted scavengers of this sort. He saw them now, three of them, leaning over a crude wooden table, sorting through artefacts, packing them rather carefully and staking their boxes off to the side. Desmond supposed they were waiting for this Juan and his truck. He didn't quite know why they had to wait it out. Surely, they would kill him, anyway? What other choice did they have, when he had seen what he had? When they had taken him into their camp? So why were they waiting?

The Assassins at the back of his mind still bristled collectively, but it was all Desmond could do to suppress a laugh and he knew perfectly well how insane it would have sounded. Here he was, great and prophesied scion of legendary warriors, killed by a handful of criminals in the jungle while the world ended. _Ended in fire, _Tam whispered fiercely. _Ended in flames. I saw my home burn, all the islands scorched and lost forever, the oceans boiling around it. _

"What was it called?" Desmond asked.

_The archipelago known as the Daughters of Atlas. _

"Yeah, thought so," Desmond nodded to himself, grinning like a self-satisfied maniac.

He couldn't stay here, it felt nice, this plunge into insanity, but he didn't feel crazy enough to make it last. He still cared for things in this world, Ezio had made sure he remembered that amidst all the blood and the burning loss. The feeling was slipping through his hands, through grasping fingers. If he went crazy, truly and irrevocably, maybe this all would be over? But it was an empty hope, wasn't it, because it certainly had not ended for Sixteen.

They had used belts to bind his hands and feet, the stiff leather didn't fit too tight to his skin, but bit sharply into it whenever he tried to wriggle free. He relaxed, breathed and tried to order his thought. The camp was small, two small tents, hemmed in by greenery on two sides. A campfire in the centre of the open space and the boxes and table with the artefacts. The men had scattered around, five now packing the artefacts, another by the fire and one had settled himself a little further to the side, going through Desmond's things at leisure. There had been two more that Desmond couldn't see from his position, maybe off taking a leak or taking a nap in one of the tents. _Remember them. _

Suddenly, without warning, Altaïr pressed up against him from behind and it was all Desmond could do not to flinch. He turned his head to look, but Altaïr was entirely too close and this was not the man he knew, not now and not _then _either. This Altaïr was younger, before his pride had been broken. He wrapped a hand around Desmond's waist and pushed his face too close to his ear, chuckling darkly. It was a lover's touch, sensual and intimate, but the words, the words were different, whispered with hot breath into Desmond's ear, words of how easy it would be to kill them all. How easy it was to _crush a larynx or snap a neck, drive your fingers into your opponent's kidneys and he will go down; break their legs and they will not pursue you even if they do not go into shock. You can deliver a kick to the tailbone, habibi, make them scream. Child's play to twist limbs from sockets, snapping joints and tearing sinews. See that man? With his back to you? You could topple him over, push his face into the fire before he ever knows you are there, you can do it even with your hands bound. You could do it half-blind and barely conscious. _

Altaïr slipped his hand down Desmond's arm, traced the shape of his knuckles with his fingers until he came to rest on the belt around his wrists. _Such carelessness, _Altaïr observed sniggering. _Such a weak binding. Do they not know who you are? _Indignant hiss in his voice. _How can they, when you hide your face? Discretion is useful, but not quite as satisfying when you can kill them as they look into your eyes. _

Desmond swallowed, his throat constricting with the images insinuating themselves in his mind.

_They didn't take the hidden blades. _Altaïr observed. _They must want this so very much. _

"They are talons," Desmond corrected and Altaïr only chuckled again. _Twist your hand, ya gamil, I will show you. _Altaïr's fingers were back at his hands, wrapping around him. The stump was dull red, Desmond could see it now, angry puckered skin and when Altaïr moved, a quick, sharp pain cut across Desmond's own finger, but if the phantom shared the pain, he gave no indication. His grip was hard and startlingly real. He had Desmond pull one hand back, as far as it would go. _Like this, just like this. _

From this angle, it would be easy to activate the blade and sever the belt holding him. It would still graze him, though, sheer over the skin of his other arm. Altaïr reached forward again, pushed fingers between Desmond's arms. _Think of it as a caress, al-Muḥibb. _

The blade came free, brushed over Desmond's skin and severed the belt. Desmond hissed with the sharp pain as the blade slid over his skin and the edge nicked his knuckle. The belt fell away and for some reason Desmond breathed better again, freer, as if other bonds had fallen away from him as well and his head had cleared for the first time in what felt like an eternity already. It was deceptive, it must be deceptive. He still felt Altaïr beside him, but when he reached down to free his feet, Altaïr was gone and Desmond felt alone. No whispers in his head, no sneers, no anger at some perceived indignity, some slight against the honour of his entire bloodline. They were silent, it seemed, and impatiently waiting.

Desmond slipped to his feet smoothly for all the way his muscles had cramped up while he had been bound. The world painted itself in sudden sharp relief, painful to behold but with a clarity it had never held before. Distantly, he thought he was grinning again, didn't want to know for sure, couldn't tell. Teeth bared, anyway.

The man by the fire died first. Desmond collided with him, held his shoulders and toppled him over, no resistance with the shock and the moment spun away again in desperate shrieking as the flames ate at the man's hair and face and clothes. Desmond jumped over him, felt the flames against his legs momentarily and felt its grip let him him. It seemed a deliberate gesture to him, a salute by the fire it its better. The others were startled, but confused more than anything. Desmond fell on the man by his backpack, who had put the machete aside for himself by the looks of it. The man stared wide-eyed at him, shock freezing him in place. Desmond gripped his face in both hands, pulled him up a little, felt the vertebrae come lose. He twisted the head to the side, snapped the neck like a twig.

Yelling reached his ears as if from a great distance. He wasn't sure what it meant, whether it had anything to do with him. He snatched the machete from the ground and met the next attacker who came at him with bare fist and the expression of a wild animal. Desmond ducked low under the first blow, brought the machete around, held his ground against the sudden weight against his arm until suddenly the pressure broke and shirt and skin split apart. The man went down gargling, clutching his slit belly.

Desmond danced further, snapped his left hand up and released the hidden blade, let it eat a man's eye and pulled back. He twisted to the side, threw his full weight into the next opponent, bore him down under him. He brought the machete around like a lever, flattened one hand over the blade and pressed it down, watched as the gleaming blade sank through the man's throat. The man twitched under him, helpless flaying. Desmond hadn't even noticed he was struggling. He stood back up, felt something wet trickle down the front of his face, but didn't look to see the blood the severed artery had sprayed over him.

The other men were clustered with their back to one of the tents. One had pulled a gun, but it was lowered and Desmond could see, in this new sharpness of his eyes, that the safety was still on, that the man lacked the presence of mind to think of what he had to do with it. Another, half-hidden behind his comrade, made the sign of the cross.

_Cheap superstition! _Desmond barked at it and licked his lips as he took a step closer, watching with a measure of foreign satisfaction as they retreated from him, pulled closer together as if that made even a shred of a difference.

_Remember. _

Desmond jerked his right arm up, elbow first, felt it connect with a chin. He whirled around, slammed his fist into the man's face as he began to topple, groaning. He brushed the man's feet away from under him, caught him by the arm as he fell, used the awkward balance to step down hard on one knee. The man howled and crumpled into a heap when Desmond let him go.

Desmond turned his head, lifted the machete, pointed. "I see you."

The last man stood behind the shed where Desmond had been. He held a machete of his own, had clearly been about to edge around the open space to come at Desmond's back.

Desmond took a step back until, picked up his backpack. He grinned at the others. "Your lives are mine," he announced, grating Spanish in his mouth. He had never spoken that language before, he barely understood himself what he was saying. It didn't matter, _they _did.

He shouldered the backpack, glanced around to orient himself and saw the wayfarer standing on the forest pathway. Desmond gave him a nod and an affirmative smile.

"I'll come and collect them later," he announced and laughed. "No time to waste, you know how it is. The world won't save itself."

He laughed again and turned away. There was a prickle at the back of his neck and Desmond almost wished someone would put his words to the test, found the courage to challenge him, so he could enjoy smashing them to pieces. But he was right, there was somewhere he needed to go, before the flames came down on all of them.

The jungle loomed, it opened its maw and swallowed him.

* * *

La Nature est un temple où de vivants piliers

Laissent parfois sortir de confuses paroles;

L'homme y passe à travers des forêts de symboles

Qui l'observent avec des regards familiers.

_(Nature is a temple where living columns_

_Let slip from time to time uncertain words;_

_Man finds his way through forests of symbols_

_Which regard him with familiar gazes.)_

— _Charles Baudelaire, "Correspondances"_

* * *

**Italian:**

_Mia brava, _my brave one

**Arabic:**

_habibi,_ beloved

_ya gamil,_ beautiful

_al-Muḥibb,_ the lover

(Habibi is harmless, it can be used among friends, family, lovers, whatever. As for the other two, they are as slashy as they sound and didn't I have loads of fun with that)

**I don't speak either of these languages!**


	21. Nec Imbellem Feroces Progenerant Aquilæ

**Note: **So I had plenty of fun writing this. It _is_ something of a rollercoaster ride, expect sudden changes in direction.

I feel like I've forgotten to give credit for something. I can't track it for the life of me... damn.

* * *

**Chapter 21: Nec Imbellem Feroces Progenerant Aquilæ Columbam**

For two hours, Desmond forced himself through the jungle, hacking wildly at every branch, every leaf that dared get in his Two hours and then the pendulum swung back again, forced him almost to his knees with the power of it. He heaved, holding on to the nearest tree for support as he vomitted up what meagre food he had managed to force down earlier, but it didn't seem to be enough, his throat kept convulsing until his whole body shook. He became aware of pain, running through all the strained muscles of his body. He wasn't meant for the kind of strain he had just indulged in. He gagged again, remembering it. At the time, it had seem natural, perfect, but now there was again the sudden change in pressure when the one man's belly split apart along the edge of the machete's blade and although he had not seen it happen, he knew well enough how it must have been, how he had gone to his knees, curling up around himself, trying to keep his guts in. And there was the other, struggling like the possessed under Desmond's weight, helplessly, already seeing his end; there was the oddly solid feel of an eyeball giving way to the blade and distantly, Desmond heard the dry crunch of breaking, splintering bone.

His shirt was bloodied and it filled the air around him with its stench, made worse by the thick heat pressing down around him. The blood had run down his body, soaked into his pants and even down to his boots. It felt like acid, burning against his skin. With a breathless yelp, Desmond tore himself from his clothes, he couldn't bear touching them even for a second longer. He flung them away as if they were made from poison, stared after the shirt where it had caught on a branch and hung there, like the ghost of a murder victim soiled with blood.

For a long time, he simply stood there, barely moving and simply breathing — because he couldn't _stop _breathing at his will, he would have, if it were possible — his heartbeat was wild, he felt the blood in all its living red as it pulsed through his body, felt it beat just under his skin on his wrists and throat. It was all he could do not to reach down and pull the great artery from his thigh.

The jungle had fallen silent around him, animals spooked and ran away or hidden, no wind down here to ruffle the leaves to lend even a small sense of movement to the scene. He felt his mind as it emptied, poured away like the blood to pool at his feet — he didn't look, but he saw it anyway — everything he was ever going to be, all just falling away, because he was alone and because there was no one left to hold all the voices at bay.

How could he still trust his own judgement, when it might just as well be someone else's judgment, borne of someone else's experience and fostered in times wildly different from his own?

It was difficult, now, to decipher what had prompted him to act as he had. How stupid did he have to be, allowing himself to be captured by a pack of tomb raiders? Had he somehow forgotten that the entire fate of this sorry world hinged on him? The truth was, he had not, but he had tried to retain who he was, to preserve something of himself in the eye of this storm his life had become. The alien voices in his head, swelling and ebbing like the tide and although he wasn't always aware of them, he knew they were all there, washed free by the Animus messing with his head, pulled to the forefront. Yet, in all that, he still remembered what was important to him and these tomb raiders, for all that none of them were upstanding citizens, had done nothing to deserve what he could have done to them on the small clearing.

He had been looking for some kind of balance in all of this, some narrow path for him to walk, to find a compromise between who he wanted to be and who he was becoming. Or who, just maybe, he already was. He was Desmond Miles, and Desmond Miles would never kill just because he could, just because the power called to him, just because it was easier and because it was the safest path to walk.

_Get it together, saviour. _

"Insanity," he muttered to himself, reassessing an earlier observation, "looks very much like this."

Here he stood in the jungle, dressed in the one sock he somehow had missed in his earlier frenzy and he wasn't sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry or both. He almost did it, too.

All of this, but the simple truth remained, there was no turning back. Where would he go? Back to Tassamlé to face Altaïr and Ezio and all the others to tell them, what exactly? I chickened out? I ran out of underwear?

And there was the fire in his mind, roused by the wayfarer, the memories of burning, of flames so bright even thinking of them seemed to sear the insides of his eyes. _This is the fate you offer the world instead, _the wayfarer said in his mind. _Just because you are scared? Because you can't handle the blood? _

Desmond pulled a tired shrug. His muscles hurt so much, not just from the fight, but from his trek through the jungle afterward.

"You picked the weakest one," he told him aloud. "I'll be in pieces before I ever reach Sianahk'ab."

A quiet chuckle, vibrating from his head down his spine. _But you are already here. All of this is Sianahk'ab, the Place of Many Nights. I came here to establish the network._

Desmond nodded slowly. He forced himself to move, to pick up his backpack and find some change of clothes. It was harder than he had thought, his arms were shaking badly.

"Yeah, I still don't get it. What network?" Desmond muttered. He straightened and looked around, found a fallen trunk not far away and made his way to it.

_To protect against the fire of the Sun Cycle we established a shield that would protect the planet while the magnetic field was down. But I was too late, it took too long. _

Desmond bared his teeth, pulling on his pants. "Maybe they should have send more than one."

"There were _conditions," _Tam sneered behind Desmond's shoulder. Desmond flinched and glanced back over his shoulder. Tam stood a little away, arm extended to allow a great white eagle to perch on it. The bird eyed Desmond with eyes at least as piercing as any Assassin's.

"That's stupid," Desmond pointed out.

"It was already too late anyway. Everyone knew that. When I set out, half the world was already burned." He stroked his other hand down the back of the eagle. "Do you think they would have made peace with us otherwise?"

He shook his head, took another step back and reached, threw the eagle into the air. It shot up like an arrow, almost perfectly straight up until it broke through the leaves. Desmond watched the man, then let his gaze drift away to where his boots had fallen, watching as a small scorpion slowly made its way towards them.

"Why you?" Desmond asked.

"Why me?" Tam echoed with a smile. "Because I am the Grandmaster of the Asasiyun, because they call me the Hero of a Thousand Battles Won." He paused, hesitated. "A reputation I earned, I guess, but who cares? A list of battles and it was all far less glorious while it happened, let me tell you. You think you are the only who ever learned to hate the scent of blood?"

Desmond said nothing. He realised he knew very little of this man's personality, not in the way he recognised Altaïr's pride — still there, after all those years, merely better hidden — or Ezio's strength — the way he revelled in his power, because he had been rendered helpless once in his life and would never let it happen again. Desmond didn't know Tammuz at all, just had looked through his eyes a few times, just stood here in the jungle, still half-dressed and talked to him.

"I wouldn't know," Desmond said grudgingly. He shook the scorpion from one boot, put it back on.

Tam gave a slow smile, almost genuine, sadness tempered by a fine-tuned sense of irony. "They tied it to me and mine, because the defeat was to be mine as well."

He stepped forward and Desmond's his heart almost stopped when Tam suddenly bent to retrieve the machete. He twirled it in his hand, once, caught the tip between two gloved fingers and held it out to Desmond. "We could walk. It isn't too far, but given the state of these roads, it may take longer than I remember."

Hesitantly, Desmond closed his hand around the blade, almost expecting it to vanish again. "Are you real?" he asked, rather stupidly, though he wasn't going to question anything that happened, not any longer.

"Like Altaïr Ibn La'Ahad?" Tam asked, the name sounded strange from his tongue. "Or Ezio Auditore da Firenze?"

Desmond lifted his other hand, reaching for Tam, but his hand hovered in midair, too afraid to put his theory to the test.

Tam smiled again and Desmond _knew _in this very instant, why Tam had appeared so dangerous to Those Who Came Before. Tam shook himself free of Desmond's wide-eyed stare, turned around to scrutinise the shrubbery all around. "No, I'm not. I'm a figment of your imagination. Clever trick, though. I wish I had thought of that loophole and wouldn't Ishtheret have hated it."

Desmond watched him, acutely aware of the weight of the machete in his hand.

"Get going, saviour," Tam called.

Gathering the rest of his things, Desmond followed Tam into the jungle. Sometimes, the world would change around him as he walked, when the memory became too strong and the jungle drew back from him and the ground under his feet would be smooth, pale pavement, laid on wide roads. His clothes would change, too, from the grubby, scratchy material to Tam's futuristic garb to the soft flutters of Altaïr's robes and the heavy leather of Ezio's armour. Ammar had been fond of a thin chain-mail shirt and Desmond saw it glittering from the corners of his eyes.

Tam didn't stay with him all of the way. He vanished, flickered in and out of existence with Desmond't waning sanity, coming and going in his mind as if he owned the place. Desmond beat against a bush with his staff, pushed it aside and waded through. At his feet, something hissed and he had time to see a snake slither away from him. He followed it, tracked its subtle movements through the greenery, mesmerised for some reason. _Believing in portents now? _

"No," Desmond answered. "I don't have to."

He walked with Joseph for a time, listening to a long litany of how the jungle didn't compare to a steppe, to an open prairie where you could see your enemies coming miles away, where they advantage didn't have to be handed over.

"How did you avenge Georgia?" Desmond asked him and Joseph stiffened, stopped dead on his tracks until Desmond followed, turned back to look at the other man. Face to face, Joseph was smaller than Desmond, narrow-shouldered and wiry, weather-worn and aged before his time.

"Revenge," Joseph said slowly. "Never served any purpose at all."

Desmond started walking again. "I wouldn't know," he said, biting back Ezio's opinion on the matter, though Ezio in his later years might even have began to agree with Joseph. It was easy to remember your morals after the deed, when the blood was already spilled and you would not have to take it back. A part of him — of Ezio — had enjoyed sinking his blade into these people, every single one of them. It wasn't satisfying, not in the long term, but a warrior tended to have a talent for living only in the present anyway.

Ezio strode at his side, magnificently dressed in black brocade clock and elaborate mask. The jungle seemed to be parting for him like the crowds during Carnevale, forced apart by his presence and will. He had glanced had given Desmond a long look, as if concerned for him and then began to talk, easy conversation, talking about whatever seemed to cross his mind. About Caterina Sforza and the nights they had spent together until Desmond snarled at him to keep the lurid details to himself. Chuckling, Ezio began talking instead about the black mare he had been gifted by her only to switch the subject just when Desmond began to feel the horse's muscles flank under him, when it threatened to take his feet away from under him. Ezio spoke about Leonardo, about sitting down with him by the fire in his workshop with a glass of rich wine and only listen to him. Leonardo's genius shone through him, a powerful force, something almost possible to touch. And then the Apple, glimpsed only so briefly.

"I wonder," Ezio said thoughtfully. "What he would make of all of this. If Altaïr had taken _him _into the future and not me."

"You don't know that," Desmond pointed out. "It's not part of your memories."

"No, I don't," Ezio agreed amiably. "But it is part of yours. Do you think I'm really here?"

Desmond frowned, kicked at a bush with his foot. "You kinda are, you know."

Ezio laughed, far more amused by all this than the real one had been. Perhaps it took several centuries of life to embitter a man like this. "You understand that this is only the beginning?"

"I'm afraid so," Desmond answered. "Do you know? What happens later?"

Ezio laughed again. "We don't see into the future, none of us do. You will have to find your own way, one we haven't travelled before."

"So you'll all shut up about this one day?"

Ezio was silent for along moment, when he spoke again, it was in Arabic, a strange mixture of his own voice and Altaïr's. He said, "Some choices can never be taken back."

He left him alone after that, with unexpected silence in his head and no ghosts to keep him company. Even the jungle remained stable for a little while, just an endless green and Desmond wondered if he would ever have found this way, even with the GPS guiding him.

He heard the river long before he found it, followed its tinkling sound for what felt like an hour before he reached it. It was a small stream, following a rough, zigged bed made of dark stone.

"It's fallen into disrepair," Tam informed him. "The channels run farther to the West."

Desmond nodded, stepped forward and dipped his hand into the water. It was surprisingly cold, shocked him into a different state of awareness all of a sudden. He hesitated for a moment, than sat down by the water, breathing deeply, watching it as it flowed away, curled into the darkness of the jungle. "Do I follow it?" he asked.

"No, the path is easier if you keep heading due north," Tam replied, refreshingly direct for a change.

"I should make a copy of you and sell you pre-installed in cars," Desmond muttered as he levered himself back to his feet. He was too tired to rest. If he stopped now, he wouldn't get going for a long time and the thought of having to sleep was terrifying. There was no telling as who he would wake up.

Not long after he had left the stream behind, the jungle seemed to become thinner, he had to exert less and less force to clear a path. He put the machete away, got by only with the long staff.

"Seriously, though," he said aloud, even though there was no one there right then. _There is _never _anyone there, Des, _he told himself, _you are batshit crazy, remember. Standing naked in the jungle and all that. Wait for it and you'll put your boxers on your head and yodel. _

"What Lucy did, calling all the Assassins into the fight, can we win?"

"Can we afford not to try?" Altaïr replied and fell into step beside him. "If we wait here, death will sift over us like sand and numb us to sleep."

"You decided to put the Assassins into obscurity," Desmond said. "Was that a mistake?"

"Not at the time," Altaïr said. "Assassins adapt and I adapted us to the changing times. It is not my fault that later leaders forgot that times _always_ change and that we must change with them."

"What if we lose the Assassins now?" Desmond asked, feeling his throat close down again at the thought. He had, until so vey recently — although it felt longer — never been part of the Assassins, never really. He had ran away from home, had left that life behind and had wanted nothing whatsoever to do with it. But these past weeks, so intense, so world-shattering, had turned them into his family. Or perhaps it was just more Bleeding from his ancestors, those who had led the Brotherhood themselves, those who had carried this responsibility, those who had _cared. _He felt responsible for them now, wherever they were in the world. Fighting the good fight, making sure Desmond had a chance, however slim, to do what he — it seemed — had always been destined to do.

"We won't lose," Altaïr said insistently. "Death is nothing. It has no power. It _serves _us."

"Yeah, sounds like propaganda, I'm sure all the new terrorist groups are using it these days," Desmond remarked somewhat scathingly. "Is that even realistic? Ezio said the Assassins are weak, full of traitors and sympathisers."

"So?" Altaïr asked mildly, not offended in the least. "Do you think that there will ever come a time, in this world, or any other, where no man or woman alive remembers what freedom is? That is deserves to be defended, to be fought for. There will always be people willing to die for it."

"Maybe you should all be a little less enamoured with death," Desmond pointed out, still shuddering at the memory of what he had done to the raiders.

He saw Altaïr smile, a thin, quicksilver expression. "Maybe," he conceded. "It will be something to do, when you are Grandmaster."

"Are you crazy?" Desmond whipped head around, couldn't keep the surprise from his voice.

Another smile, "Not as much as someone else I could mention, no."

Desmond shrugged it off. "I can't be the _leader _of the Assassins!" he exclaimed.

"Why not?" Altaïr asked mildly.

Desmond gestured helplessly with both hands, felt the staff catch a higher branch and had to wrangle with it a moment. It took him a while until he found his answer. "Because I'm a bartender! That's what I learned to be, that's what I _wanted _to be. I can't _lead."_

"You are a good man, Desmond," Altaïr told him.

"Yeah, great," Desmond snapped. "As if that isn't a liability in itself."

"You are the leader for these changed times, Desmond," Altaïr insisted. "A new brotherhood in a new world."

"Like hell," Desmond declared.

"We will see," Altaïr said sagely. "We will see."

"Like _hell_," Desmond reiterated, whatever else he had wanted to say remain unsaid as his voice tethered out, when the jungle suddenly opened before him. For a moment he thought he was having another vision, so abrupt was the change, as if a concealing veil had been drawn back. One moment there had been thick green all around him, lush, nearly solid foliage snatching at his legs, pushing against his staff, the next step brought him out from under the canopy and the sky opened above him. The light was tinted pale blue and pink with the sunset and Sianahk'ab spread out before him. He had imagined it fallen into ruin, a pile of once square rocks, single walls of buildings somewhere, maybe the smoothed over edges of a few buildings. Not this, not in a million years would he have imagined this.

He he stepped out of the jungle into a wide plazeplaza, smooth stone under his feet just like that with only a little thin grass covering it here and there. Desmond walked a few more steps. A little distance away, the channel Tam had mentioned earlier cut a dark line through the plaza and wound itself around the foot of a large, black-stoned pyramid. The black stone looked new, almost polished, it seemed to be catching the failing light and throwing it back at Desmond tinted in blue and green.

"How was this place not found?" Desmond wondered aloud. Surely satellite photos would have shown a structure of this size, surely someone would have had to stumble over it when Tassamlé was so close? Unless… _unless it was hiding. _From whom? And how?

Desmond set out across the plaza, one deliberate step after the other. There were other building coming into view as he walked, peeling themselves from the coming darkness, seemingly to step closer to Desmond. He felt watched, but that must be Tam's memories, who had had to fight here. Before he could stop himself, Desmond looked down at the ground under his feet as if he thought he could make out the very spot where the blood from his cut lips had hit the ground.

The channel around the pyramid was filled with water, dark and immeasurably deep. Desmond watched its lazy swirls for a moment until something else caught his attention. There was writing carved into the bottom step, carvings shallow enough that they might have vanished over time, but the angle of light was just right, caught the edges of the carvings and made them stand out.

_Those Living of the White Eagle. _

The writing danced before his eyes, as if unsure whether it wanted to be read by him or not. It changed shape, became other languages, even changed its meaning a few times only to settle back to what it had originally been.

"Like I said, they bound it to my memories," Tam said. He had drawn his hood down to cover his face, every inch of his body pulled tight with tension.

"You are the eagle?"

"We all are," he said. "The Asasiyun. The white eagles were a gift of our patrons in times when we were still their favoured slaves. A white eagle could take down one of their armoured lions, but they didn't realise we had trained them to do that until much later."

Desmond looked away from Tam, back at the steps climbing the pyramid. "So, do I go in?" he asked. "Look for that button I was hoping for?"

Desmond felt the shift in Tam, felt how he changed, how his current manifestation fell away and the pure, unaltered memory took his place as he stepped past Desmond. Blood soiled the white of his coat and his face had taken a feral look, far too fierce to hide his inhumanity any longer. How many generations back did it go for Tam, who stood at the beginning of it all? Was he half and half alien? More, just because it seemed barely diluted down the millennia.

As he ascended the steps, Tam pulled a thin sheet from under his coat. It was rolled up, metallic and slightly transparent. He walked like a wraith of vengeance, angry from the fight, frustrated from having to do this, from having been forced into this role, knowing all the while that he was losing anyway, that there were too many traps set for him to succeed. And still he was bound by his stubbornness, the bare, bone-dry remnants of his pride, the memory of who had once been. He wanted to surrender so badly and Desmond felt the urge within himself, to simply allow himself to fall, but he couldn't do it, as if he lacked the mental mechanism to allow for it.

Desmond forced himself into motion, climbed the steps, felt something grip at his feet, wrap around his ankles for a moment and when he looked down the writing had curled away from the stone, slithers of surreal light that touched him briefly as if searching for something. He watched it fall away, revert to its ordinary state and Desmond turned away, not without the strange feeling that he had just passed some kind of test.

Tam had almost reached the top by then and Desmond hurried after him, panting until his lungs hurt. It was further than he had thought from the bottom, countless steps under his feet seemingly dragging him back down, fighting him, trying to make him stumble, to fight him. Inside and outside his head, Tam sneered once more. They thought they could stop him? They thought they could make him falter and fail when this was the only thing he still lived for? They had taken _everything _from him, his family, his friends and lovers. There were no allies and comrades anymore, either, and no home to return to. He had nothing left to lose and they would damn well learn just how dangerous a man such as him could be when there was nothing left to hold him back.

The top of the pyramid stood higher than the canopy of jungle all around it, high enough to still see the rest of sunlight glimmer along the horizon while the sky had fallen into a thick, velveteen twilight, too bright still to allow for more than the brightest stars to show. Desmond had to stop there, not only because he was out of breath from the climb, but because the view was too stunning. It was quiet up here and there was wind, cooling him, invigorating him after the thick dampness of the jungle. The cold stung at the nape of his sweat-slicked neck and he almost shivered for a moment.

He put his head back, stared at the endlessly deep blue of the sky and he thought that maybe, just maybe it was all worth it, only for this view, unrivalled in all the memories he had, unsoiled in all the times that passed. Whatever else was being lost, anywhere in the world, this view could still be there.

Tam, then as well as now, had no time to spare. If Desmond narrowed his eyes he could see the threatening flares of flames along the horizon, markedly different to the sunset gold. It reminded Desmond of the weapon that had destroyed Sirahidaa… and destroyed more than that, remember that, too Desmond. _Cities can be rebuild, but people never return._

"Well," Desmond began slowly. "Sometimes they do. After a fashion."

But Tam was not in the mood for this type of bickering and Desmond, too, understood his own impulse well enough. Turning away from the view meant having to face the open doorway that led into perfect blackness.

Desmond issued a sigh. He considered trying to call the others, pulling his laptop from his backpack and try to reach them. It seemed like important connection to make in this moment. He had felt removed from them, from everything else. This weird hero's journey through the jungle, accompanied by ghosts and memories and insanity. What was left of him now, anyway? And he knew, too, that there was no way to find this out until he tested himself against the reality of others, against the texture and feel of the real world. He would have to compare himself to the living and breathing ancestors he had left back in Tassamlé to find out who he was. He itched for them to take these choices away again, free him from all these obligations.

"Stupid pub," Ezio announced, sitting on the steps below Desmond. He was leaned back, looking at the sky as if he found the sight mildly amusing. "Freedom has always been the more difficult choice. That's how the Templars find so little resistance, because it's _easy _to bent to their rule."

"Your point?" Desmond asked.

"We didn't come all this way just to watch you reject the freedom we worked so hard to protect."

Desmond frowned. "If this is again about me becoming the leader of the Assassins…"

Ezio glanced at him, just a quick look and then back, at the sky and across Sianahk'ab, which was hidden by the night by then.

"It's a choice," Ezio said. "You can refuse, you can _always _refuse."

"You've said that before," Desmond pointed out. "I still don't see how any of this was my choice."

"What matters that you make your choices for the right reasons," Ezio continued as if Desmond hadn't spoken. "Walk away because you are free, but don't walk away because you are too afraid."

"So where is the difference?" Desmond challenged. "I mean, in the end? Who cares for how I reason that one out?"

"There will be others," Ezio said. "Take the position or refuse it, but there will be an entire generation of Assassins watching you do it. You will be an example either way, it is one thing you cannot change. Your bloodline has too much history."

"Still no pressure, I get it," Desmond announced sarcastically. He squared his shoulders and looked back at the gaping black doorway with a slow-spreading sense of dread climbing up in his throat.

Ezio chuckled and slipped to his feet, turned around. Put his head to the side. "It doesn't have to be so difficult, rookie." And he faded away, dissolved into the night, paled away against the faint starlight.

Tam still stood at the doorway, as if waiting for Desmond. His gaze was turned towards him, watching Sianahk'ab, listening to Desmond's conversation with Ezio. Desmond couldn't tell what he thought about it and barely remembered how weird that thought really was, only when he paused to measure it against the everyday normalcy he had left behind so long ago.

He walked into the blackness on tired legs, then stopped just inside to wait while his eyes adjusted. The inside of the pyramid seemed to be hollow, he could sense it even before he saw, some vast emptiness right in front of him and gaping at his feet. Gradually, he became aware of lines of green light following the roof of the pyramid, pointing down in long, elegant swirls. They shifted before his eyes as he watched and they became brighter. Words, writings, he saw, poems long forgotten as the world turned. He couldn't read them, not really, there was just raw _meaning _that pierced his heart without bothering his brain. For all his talk about going to pieces, he hadn't thought it would feel so much like heartbreak.

Tam passed him by, walked out into the blackness and the floor lit up with his trail. He turned around and a pillar of light appeared at his back, obscuring his face with shadows. The stone platform on which he stood turned smoothly around the pillar, then descended, fell from Desmond's sight and in its wake, the emptiness was absolute once again.

"Great," Desmond muttered. Whatever elevator there once had been, it seemed to be gone. He could just make out its remnants in the eerie gloom.

Someone touched his shoulder and Desmond looked up to see a girl's face, Desmond wouldn't have judged her older than fiveteen. She was instantly familiar, though he had never seen her before, never _felt _her before. She gave him a broad grin and said, "I'm Flavia. Run with me."

Without giving him for a response, she took off, launched herself nimbly off the edge. Desmond yelped in shock, for a moment certain she would fall, that he could see her fall all the way down because the green lights would follow her. Instead, she caught a protruding beam with one hand, swung herself up with one arm like a monkey only to jump to a protruding metal edge almost two metres away. Desmond hesitated for another moment, watched her as she let herself drop to another beam and scoot along it until she could jump to some liana or maybe a hanging cable of some kind.

Cursing under his breath and far too aware of his tired state, Desmond followed. The beam shuddered under his impact and the metal edge bit into his palm, making him hiss with unexpected pain. He followed Flavia in the darkness, tried to trace her steps and cursed how easy she made it seem. He saw less than she, he supposed, because half the time he was jumping almost blind. The very wall, which had seemed perfectly smooth only a moment before would suddenly sprout dozens of small crevices and stones, enough to scrabbling fingers and overstrained toes in their now far too solid soles.

He held fast, cranked his neck as far is it would go to catch sight of her, where she hung from a free-swinging pillar and watched as she jumped once more into the darkness. Desmond pushed himself away, caught the pillar with one hand and felt his grip slide, tiredness and sweat too much for his muscles. His feet dangled over nothingness, the gaping black. He cursed inwardly, didn't have the breath to do so aloud, cursed in a dozen languages and pulled tight. He threw his other arm up with all the willpower still left to him, felt his fingertips pass over smooth, slippery stone and he was almost falling. There was just one thing he could do like this and there was no time to try and remember where Flavia had jumped, no time to make sure he had the direction right. He swung once, which was all he had time for, the end of the pillar gliding through his fingers, then pushed himself off with a yell.

He twisted his body in free-fall like a cat, brought himself around while he still had the chance and threw his arms out. He hit something hard with his chest, coughed with the impact, but dug his hands into solid stone. He hung there for a moment, gathering his wits and his strength, then pulled himself up slowly. He was on some kind of wider platform it seemed, the dull green glow outlined it clearly enough, now that he was being still. He pulled his wobbly legs in under him, breathed hard.

Flavia stepped to his side, watched him dejectedly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean for that to happen."

Desmond looked up at her, watched her face in the gloom and felt Ezio's love well through him. "Never mind," he said. "It wasn't your fault."

"Do you want to take the stairs from here?"

Desmond's head snapped up at her, glaring. "There are _stairs_?"

She edged backwards a little. "Not all the way," she said defensively. "And they aren't all good."

Desmond pulled himself to his feet. "I'll take my chances, thanks."

He stood for a moment calmly, waiting for his vision to settle, to untangle to green lights as thy twirled around him. Stairs, stairs… ah, there. Flavia was right, the stairs were nothing to write home about. They seemed to have been cut into the outer wall of the pyramid at a far later date, when the original builders had long since gone and all their craft been forgotten. The stairs were narrow ledges, crumbling under his weight almost as often as not. A few times more he had to save himself by a jump to another beam, a ledge or a cable from the ancient elevator.

"This is it," Flavia announced when Desmond joined her at the bottom. The ground was covered by water, reaching as high as Desmond's ankles and filling his boots uncomfortably. On instinct, Desmond reached out and ruffled his hand through her hair. She gave him a quick smile and was gone so quickly his skin sizzled with the loss.

Pillars outlined in more green light and forgotten poetry led the way and Desmond followed it carefully. The water ran with him, swirled around his feet as the path sloped downward. There was more water ahead, it hissed in his ears for a long time, mounting until he was certain there must be an entire waterfall somewhere under the pyramid.

He stepped out into a hall and the water circled away from him, surrounded a platform the same way the water enclosed the pyramid above. The water was black in the darkness and Desmond sensed it was it vanished further down behind the platform. Apart from the water, there was silence here, the light painted a falling star around his head, surrounded him by a spiral of jittery green. He lifted his hand, wanting to touch it, but it flew away from him, then vanished. Ahead of him, he saw the memory of the wayfarer unroll the metallic sheet on what looked like an altar. The sheet lit up, than turned liquid and sunk into the stone. Tam straightened away from it and the memory flickered out.

Desmond stepped on the platform and the entire room suddenly came alive around him. Golden lights joined the greens, traced new symbols over the walls and the cone of the roof above them as if nothing had ever fallen to ruins. The walls were perfectly smooth stone, darker than obsidian, reflecting the light like black mirrors. The golden light solidified behind the altar, slowly danced into shape, blinded Desmond, whose eyes were still used to the gloom.

He shielded his eyes with one hand, narrowed them in the sudden glare and barely startled when he saw three women stand there, outlined by the glow. Tam was whispering something to him, but for some reason Desmond could not understand what he was saying.

"Well, hello ladies," Desmond said. "You don't happen to have seen a big red button around here somewhere?"

"We are the Parcae," said the woman on the right. She was deeply veiled, thin and bent, age scratched her voice. "I am Morta."

"Decima," said the one in the middle. Tall and stately, standing taller than either of the others.

"Nona," said the third, young and pretty with lips painted bright red even in the near-monochrome of the hologram.

"Hi," Desmond said casually, because he couldn't think of anything else and lifted a hand in greeting. He sauntered forward a step, watched them. "I'm Desmond Miles. Now, about that button…"

Nona tittered artificially. "There is no _button_, scion of the hero," she said. "You failed, just as we always knew. Our task cannot be completed."

Desmond frowned, "That will certainly put a dampener on our relationship."

Decima and Morta glanced at their youngest companion, then looked back at Desmond. Morta said, "We must do this in the right order. That is why were placed here." Decima smiled, "Come closer so we might see you clearly."

Desmond did as he was told and as the light engulfed him suddenly he wondered what they would see, how _he _looked like after all of this.

"He has the blood," he heard Morta declare.

"And the key," Decima added.

"Yes," Nona said with apparent disdain. "And the other blood."

"They made peace with their own," Decima said. "I didn't think it likely."

The light vanished, it felt as if it slipped out of his body and spilled from his veins. It was as if Desmond had been held upright by it and now, as it was gone, he almost doubled over.

"So," Desmond said when he could see them again. "Is it just me or are you always this obscure?"

Nona bared her teeth. "It's like _he _never died."

Decima looked at her. "_He _never did."

"Not that one," Nona snapped. "The other."

Morta watched them, then turned her attention back to Desmond. "We are merely patterns," she said. "Imprinted on the stone, carried in the mercury, but we still have some of our personalities. Forgive them, old hatreds die hard and they carve deep."

Desmond arched his brows and said nothing, waited.

Morta continued, "We set the conditions under which we would allow your kind to survive the return of the Sun Cycle. Tammuz was their leader, the greatest of the Asasiyun and our most dangerous enemy during the war. It was to be his burden to carry, his and those who followed him, those who carried his blood. Only one of that line would be permitted to stand before us and command us."

When Morta fell silent, Decima continued, "We set the condition that there must be peace among the Asasiyun, that they find their common ground again with their own and you carry the blood of what were their enemies."

Desmond whispered, "The Templars? I have Templar blood, is that it?"

"That is the name they gave themselves later," Decima nodded.

"Of course, you would also still need to carry the key," Nona took over in her contemptuous tone. "As prove that you managed to evolve at least far enough to interpret it for what it was."

"The white eagle code?" Desmond asked.

Nona looked at her companions. "They still don't know," she said. "They still don't understand anything."

"Maybe that's because we don't get much in the way of explanation," Desmond pointed out. Tam stood behind him suddenly, whispering to him. _There were factions among the First Generation. When we signed the treaties, each one was given a voice and each one was to be represented here. Morta is the voice of peace and allegiance. Decima stands for balance and Nona has always been the enemy. _And Desmond knew that last was, at least partially, a lie.

Nona frowned in his direction as if she had sensed Tam's presence or even heard his words.

"It doesn't matter what they understand," Decima said. "These were the terms and we are bound by them."

Nona shrugged. "It matters not." She fixed Desmond with a hard, triumphant stare. "You failed. We cannot help you, even if we wanted to."

"What I said about these explanations," Desmond began and added a small sigh of unending patience.

Nona bared her teeth, but Decima said, "We must show you, so you have no reason to disbelieve our words."

Desmond had not time to prepare himself. Spikes of light shot up from the ground all around him, caging him and there was a short moment of utter panic, feeling himself held and captured like this. The light wrapped around him and slammed him into the memory.

* * *

Fortes creantur fortibus et bonis;

Est in juvencis, est in equibus patrum

Virtus; nec imbellem feroces

Progenerant aquilæ columbam.

_(The brave are born from the brave and good. _

_In steers and in horses is to be found the excellence of their sires; _

_nor do savage eagles produce a peaceful dove.) _

_—__ Horace, Carmina, Book IV. 4._

* * *

_"Death will sift over us like snow and numb us to sleep" — from Lucifer, Vol. 10, Morningstar by Mike Carey et al. _(I changed 'snow' to 'sand' because that'd make more sense to Altaïr)


	22. Pulvis et Umbra Sumus

**Author's Note: **Yes, here it is. This is the last chapter! Time for confession: I screw at endings. I can't seem to make them work like I want to. That is actually one argument in favour of me never finishing anything... But don't unsubscribe from these alerts just yet! There will be an epilogue!

I'm nervous about this. This is where I wanted to go and now it's... hopefully not a complete letdown?**  
**

* * *

**Chapter 22: Pulvis et Umbra Sumus**

This wasn't like the memories he had experienced in the Animus and it felt nothing like his hallucinations. This didn't crawl through his bones and force itself into his consciousness; and in way, that made everything worse. It blurred the borders between memory and reality until it was all Desmond could do to hold onto himself. It was because he wasn't someone different, because he was still Desmond, even when the ground under his feet changed and he felt it through the soles of his stolen boots, from smooth perfection to hard stone. It left him disoriented, swaying on his feet. Morning sun fell through wide, glassless windows, pulled his attention to the gorgeous view outside. It was coming home after being gone for too long, where everything had grown distant yet familiar. Hills in the distance, soaring from a plain and the strange mixture of snow and sand scenting the air. Again, not for the first time, Desmond tried to shake the feeling of his heart breaking. How often would this happen to him? How often could a man suffer this loss without dying of it?

He was in a study which he didn't recognise from the memories he had already seen, shelves lined the walls, stuffed with books and scrolls and tokens of long journeys, carved stones and figurines and dust-covered jewellery. He turned slowly, taking it in, wondering why the Parcae had send him here, what they meant him to see in this place.

Gradually, he became aware of wailing coming from far below the room, from the rest of the fortress or the village below. Instinct — his, someone else's — took over and he rushed to the window and he knew, instantly, where he was. This was Masyaf, this was where it all started, at least for him. He had come home to Masyaf only to see it overrun by enemies.

Without thinking, Desmond threw himself around and made for the door, the fact that this was some dream-memory all but forgotten right until his hand passed through the wood and snatched it back as if stung.

"What's happening?" he asked aloud. He didn't expect an answer and he wasn't disappointed. He considered walking through the door instead, his hand had passed through, so he supposed that would be true for the rest of him. But the thought left him uneasy. He walked back, circled the room, once, listening to the sounds, finding pattern and sense in it. There was no battle raging below, not any longer. The battle had been lost, but the fighting still went on. Holdouts here and there, desperate attempts by people too scared to surrender. This was the moment of defeat, Desmond recognised it well enough, with the bitterness of experience on his tongue. He had known victories in this life, but h remembered the defeats more than anything.

Desmond stepped to the desk and walked around it, eyes intent on the parchment laid there, half-filled with writing, but he twitched back when the door was pushed open with a soundlessness that nearly beat him from his feet. Too lost in the dream — or memory, or whatever else this was — he forgot for a moment that he was invisible, a voyeur send from the future.

A man walked in slowly, so very slowly. Tall, once, but now bent by age, a black hood fallen away to reveal short-cropped white hair. It took Desmond a long moment to recognise him, to find familiarity in sunken golden eyes and leathery, tanned skin; in the worn, withered lines of jaw and cheek and nose. Lips thinned and pulled back slightly to allow for clenched teeth. Blood trailed after him as he walked, from wounds unseen under the dark robes and from the Mongol sword he carried. Even as Desmond watched, Altaïr loosened his grip on the sword, let it slip free from free from long, bony fingers; the sword clanged on the stone before it lay motionless, blood spreading out around its blade as if the steel itself was bleeding.

Desmond stood rooted to the ground, unable to move, unable — almost — to comprehend what he was seeing. Blood was running from Altaïr's sleeves, too, as he shuffled across the room for the desk, the robes fell open to reveal a shirt soaked red. Altaïr was clutching something to his chest with his other hand, something wrapped in thick red velvet. He put it down on the desk and the cloth peeled away of its own and the Apple of Eden glittered in all its unbridled magnificence.

Altaïr moved around the desk and finally sunk into the chair with small sigh of pain, he was still after that, eyes fixed on the Apple until Desmond, still watching, couldn't tell where the glow was brighter.

Carefully, Desmond walked forward again, reached out with his hand for Altaïr's shoulder, but didn't dare touch him. He wondered if he could touch him like this, if he could feel the bones he saw sharply through the cloak where age had eroded the muscles.

Altaïr leaned forward, fingers laced with each other, but his breathing had become rattling, laboured. There were no hidden blades on either of his wrists, but Desmond saw the long scratches and bleeding wounds where they had been ripped away. Desmond glanced at the door, wondered if someone else would come, whether friend of foe would stalk Altaïr here to witness this second battle he was fighting today.

There were remnants of the old grace in his movement, a hint of swiftness, of weightlessness as he reached for the Apple. "Forgive me," Altaïr murmured so quietly Desmond barely hear it and knew, because he still remembered her intensity, who the words were meant for.

Under Altaïr's touch, the Apple came to life, a genie released from its prison and Desmond had never, in all his memories of the Piece of Eden, seen it do any of this. There were no whirling images, meant to confuse and confound. The Apple lit up, wrapped its light around Altaïr's arm and crawled up to his shoulder. Other tendrils shot forth, danced in the space in front of the desk before it solidified into the shape of a woman.

"Nona?" Desmond asked, too surprised to keep it to himself. If Altaïr had expected her appearance, Desmond couldn't tell. He had never been good at reading Altaïr, not even from inside his head and this man was so very far away from him.

The girl chuckled. "What else do you desire?" she purred.

"I want an answer," Altaïr said. "And I have a request."

The girl laughed, sounded amused, "I see."

Altaïr took his time, you could almost believe he wasn't bleeding out his life. Desmond by his shoulder saw the blood running to the ground from his soaked coat and shirt and the furiously bleeding wounds.

"What killed the First Generation?" Altaïr asked.

Nona flickered, shifted first into Decima, than Morta before she returned to herself. "The war did," she said finally, seriously. _"Your _kind did."

"I have no time for more riddles," Altaïr said, voice a low whisper.

Nona looked away, looked past him and for a moment Desmond was convinced she held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than she should. She said, "We called it the Sun Cycle. We never saw it coming, not until it was too late. Your kind made war on our doorsteps, threatened our palaces and our empires. You killed us and in a thousand years, you will die for your transgressions." She paused, smiled lazily. "We sent one on a journey, we recognise his name in your blood and we are compelled by it. He succeeded in his quest, despite the odds, but he knew nothing, or not enough, or didn't care. No matter, we will have our revenge either way."

She stepped forward, light curled around her feet as she did. "Your request?" she asked sweetly, teeth glinting sharply.

"Take me there," Altaïr said.

"Where?" she asked.

"The future."

Nona seemed surprised, drew back from him, watched him from oversized eyes. "You cannot ask that."

"I do," Altaïr answered. He leaned forward, driven by his own intensity, as if trying to stare her down.

"You don't know," she said, seemed genuinely distressed suddenly. "The power it would take, already we are falling."

Desmond saw Altaïr's eyes flicker closed and knew how close to death he truly was. The sinews in Altaïr's neck were pulled tight with the force of keeping his head upright, he swallowed, fought for failing breath. "I _command _you," Altaïr breathed roughly.

Nona hesitated, shook her head. "I'm sorry, Altaïr."

But even Desmond could tell she didn't mean that and Altaïr slammed his hand down on the desk, making ink-pots jump and in the silence the dull sound exploded. On his feet for all his wounds, for all his dying, Altaïr leaned across the desk. His other hand still wrapped around the Apple and he gripped tighter, knuckles turning white, stretched to the bone. _"Now!"_

Nona dissolved in light, not warm and golden, but scathing silver and steel. It ripped through Desmond's eyes and into his brain, seared him to the core. He felt like he was melting, drowning. Lost in ways he had never before been, for this time he never was anyone but himself. He _felt _them, though, all those generations before, writing their histories into his genes, into his souls. Altaïr was so sharp even now, merciless in his clarity and there was Ezio in all his devastating brilliance. Others before them, Tam wandering the world on his lonely quest. Had it continued, Desmond was certain he would have seen the line move on, move into the future, revealing to him all those who would come later with his name written among all the others.

He stood in the Temple still and he was facing the Parcae just as before. He had never moved an inch. The Parcae looked back at him serenely, even Nona affected some close imitation of it. She made no attempt to keep the smugness from her tone when she said, "_He_ took the power from us. We cannot do this any longer. Not as we were meant to."

Desmond stared at her, narrowed eyes not from anger but from the sense of vertigo under his feet, keeping himself from swaying.

"What did you mean? You will have your revenge?" Desmond asked.

It was Morta who answered. "All the Pieces of Eden are connected, we all share the same knowledge, the same experience. You must listen to us."

Desmond took a breath, steadying himself. "I am listening," he pointed out. "With rather well-concealed impatience. I'm still waiting for things to begin making sense. Very popular where I come from, sense."

Nona glared, but the other two seem unimpressed.

Decima said, "The Temples were built to hold the network together that would establish the Shielding that would surround the whole world until the Sun Cycle ends and the magnetic field is stable once more. But the times changed faster than we have foreseen, too much was lost long before you could begin to understand, to begin reclaiming the knowledge and history you had lost."

Morta continued, "We were placed here by Tammuz of the Asasiyun to wait for another of his line. We are bound to them all, compelled to follow their orders. You, Desmond, were meant to be the one to find us, to call us and to safe the world."

Desmond kept looking at her, watching Nona from the corner of his eye because her anger at him made her motives easier to read and comprehend. "Is there a 'but' coming up?"

Morta looked away, down at the hands folded on the stone in front of her. Decima smiled sadly, eyes suddenly gone soft. "The power was taken away. The Temples fell, the Vaults were raided, we were scattered, drained for narcissistic goals. The network is broken, our task cannot be performed the way it was meant."

Desmond watched her, his mind sifting through her words fervently, looking for the catch and how to avoid it.

"_He _took the last," Nona said. "Altaïr, asking for immortality _twice_. He did this."

Desmond knew perfectly well now what they had wanted him to see in that memory. They would lay the blame on Altaïr, on his selfish act in the face of death, but Desmond had seen something else, _remembered _something else. He trusted Altaïr, would place his life and his fate entirely in his hands, if he had to.

"No," Desmond stated. "That's not what this is. I talked to…" He stopped, shook his head, looked back up and fixed them with cold eyes. "You _wanted _Tam to fail. You set conditions that were impossible to meet. Keep one single lineage going for so long? How? Do you have any idea how often I would have died without Altaïr and Ezio there? How often they saved the bloodline in the centuries that they were alive."

He stepped forward, put his hands on the stone and leaned forward. "Altaïr changed the game and that is the _only _reason why I'm here now. You are just pissed that this fucking long con you've been playing isn't paying off the way you want it to."

Nona bared her teeth. "It doesn't matter what you believe," she said. "We cannot raise the Shielding in the way it was meant to be."

Desmond felt the stifling urge to reach out and strangle her and the thought seemed to amuse what remained of Tam in his memory. Desmond forced it away, had no intention of finding how it would if he attacked a _hologram. _

Morta's gentle voice stilled him, soothed him and his first reflex was to lash out against this manipulation. He held back on that, too. Morta said, "There is another way, but it will come with a price."

Desmond watched her, then Decima and Nona. "I see," he said slowly. "I think I'm really beginning to figure this out. You have a fail-safe… or is that a success-safe in this case? Never mind. You made sure we'd fail."

Nona looked at Morta with triumph glittering in her eyes. "Yes, you can have your survival, if you must, wallow in the mud of your new dark ages."

"What do you mean?" Desmond asked, fixed his gaze on the others. "What does she mean?"

"Look," Decima said. She lifted her hand and brushed over the stone altar between them. It glowed to life in silver light, thin lines drawing a map of the world. "These are the Temples and Vaults," she explained, pointing at brighter squares strewn like diamonds across the map. "And these are the ones that still function." And the bright squares went out again, leaving burning afterimages in Desmond's vision.

"What about the Pieces of Eden?" he asked.

"They draw their power from the Temples," Decima explained.

"So," Desmond said. "There is not enough power?"

"There is not enough power for the Shielding to function as it should," Decima corrected.

"I heard you the first time. So what does a not-functioning-as-it-should Shielding do? Will it protect us anyway?"

Because, really, did it matter with what _price-tag_ the survival of the human race came? As if he wasn't going to grasp at every straw offered to him. Which is what bothered him, because Nona seemed far too happy about all of this.

"The Shielding is meant to be flexible," Decima said. "Adjustable. Without the Temples that is harder to achieve, because the beacons need to stronger. With too little power, we have nothing left to spare, we cannot risk venting power where there is too much of it. Your technology is susceptible to such things. It is too fragile. It will no longer work the Shielding."

"It's a trap, isn't it?" Desmond asked, though more for his own benefit than theirs. "We'll be doomed either way. That's not a fair choice."

Nona tittered and pulled her lips into a pout. "You should have known your place."

Desmond fixed her sharply, waited, let the memory of Tammuz bleed through his gaze, strong enough to make her actually flinch away despite everything. Her expression faltered, froze, the superiority withering away. _I am an Assassin at the end of days, _Desmond thought, _do not challenge me now because who knows what I might do? _His fingers itched with the weight of the hidden blades at his wrists and part of him wished these were real women, not just some images, who would bleed and hurt when he slashed them.

Nona laughed, "You deserved no less! You destroyed _us! _What mercy do you expect from us? Your paltry civilisation is _nothing. _And maybe you will be worthy of the future when it comes, but I doubt it._"_

"You are dead," Desmond stated and felt unexpected heat coming into his voice. "Your future ended millennia ago. Your world is gone, it belongs to us now. I'll not let it die." He stepped forward one more step, as close to the altar as was possible. He was, just a little, pleased to see Nona shrink back from him ever so slightly. Pointedly, he looked away from her and at the others. "I'll prove you all wrong. I won't let go to ruin, whatever burden you think you are handing me here. We'll live and we'll thrive, I'll make it possible."

He drew another breath, shaky for all his attempts to keep calm. "What do I have to do?"

Nona seemed to be about to object, looking both furious and cowed, she eventually kept her silence.

"Your blood will be required," Decima said and Morta gave him a quick, reassuring smile. "Not much, do not fear, we are not all hostile."

"Put your hands on the stone," Decima ordered. The Parcae were moving, switching places, making it difficult for Desmond to follow their direction and what they were doing. Desmond reached out, he wanted to hesitate, but did not, ordered his hands to be still. He was an Assassin, it was long past time he faced that fact, there was nothing to be feared when he was the most dangerous beast of them all.

For a long moment there was nothing at all, just cool stone under his palm, then there was movement from behind him. He saw them as ghosts, as half-remembered shadows, men and women he had never encountered in any memory, each coming forward now and reached out, placed their hands through his. There was Tam, battle-weary and scarred and he saw Joseph with the ruby ring Georgia had given him. Assassins with their finger missing and there was Altaïr haughty and deliberate, joining his hand to the others. Something more than connection with this one, Desmond thought, as if whatever powers he was calling right then recognised that Altaïr had cheated them. Ezio's laced sleeves brushed over Desmond's hand, new strength running through the touch from Ezio to Desmond. So many of them, in all the millennia stretching into this moment. It was too much _again, _when his mind was already stretched, liquid, incapable of holding all of this. Alls the memories spinning through his head, all the implications, all the _meaning. _He felt a prick, on the palms of his hands and for a moment a fantasy rushed through him, of his arms slit open to the elbows because Morta had lied and this was the end, for him and everything else, all of existence. Only it wasn't. Wet blood slowly spread under his hands, but it was a thin sheen and his skin was already closing again by some magic or technology he no longer understood.

The stone shivered and changed, transformed into silver and the light blinded him for a moment. Light sprang up around him, lines crossed the room and it took Desmond a moment until he recognised it as the map of the world, seemingly freed from the stone. Energy sizzle under his fingers on the verge of pain, uncomfortable but not unbearable, but it mounted, it curled up his arms, found his shoulders and slithered back down his chest, pulling tighter until he winced.

"Our task is done," the Parcae announced, all three of them in such perfect synchronicity, their voices melted into each other. "The hundred years begin."

And the room fell in abrupt, absolute silence. Desmond blinked a few times in the vain hope that it might help. He pulled his hands away, took a careful step back from the altar. Light flickered behind him and Desmond swirled around to face Nona.

"Our task is done," she repeated disdainfully. "Let's see how well you do with your promise, Desmond Miles."

She grinned wildly, her true nature peeling itself past the facade of youth on her face.

_Run. _

But there was nowhere to run to in the darkness. He might have been able to retrace his steps back to the elevator shaft. He might have been able to climb back out, slowly and cursing all the way, but he was not given the chance. He heard the stone fall, knew somehow that it was the elevator shaft caving in. He turned around, hoping for help, for Morta or even Decima to show some compassion.

He turned back, impatiently waiting for his eyes to adjust enough and penetrate the darkness so he saw again. The green gloom was back, slithered into his awareness from the edges, grudgingly outlined the altar. The way behind was closed, but before him, he saw Tam stand at the edge of the water.

"You are mad," Desmond said as he stepped closed, peering into the blackness.

Tam straightened, spread out his hands. The ground began to drop away, disintegrating into the night, smooth stone splintering like glass and vanishing. The altar held out for a long moment, sat askew on suddenly uneven ground.

Desmond didn't wait to watch it fall. He turned back, caught Tam's gaze across the gap of thousands of years. Tam let himself fall and the white of his coat stood out starkly in the darkness, coat tails fluttering at his feet as he fell.

"But I'm not going to judge," Desmond concluded and leap after him.

* * *

In his dream, he was as still flying. In the dream, the horizon fell away and never came back to smash him down. In his dream, there was no darkness at all, only the perfection that never faded. This one shining, flawless moment, preserved in amber for all the generations to come.

Outside of the dream, Desmond groaned. A twig was digging into his back and he was wet, water still swirling coldly around his right foot and frost climbing up his leg like death. His entire body hurt and his head throbbed, painful beyond believe, but curiously empty. He couldn't remember… so many things. He had forgotten so much, more than he could possibly ever have known to start with. He was a hurting shell, washed empty of all intents and purposes until only this shell of a man remained, with barely any bones left in his body. A breathing corpse with a tagged-on name that meant too much to other people.

He opened his eyes. He was an Assassin, whatever else held true outside this dream of flight, he could trace his family line back for millennia and they had _always _been like this. They died, but they did not surrender and sometimes, they didn't even die. Maybe Ishtheret had uttered a true prophecy, the only one ever made. He remembered now, he _knew _and he _felt _them in his mind, behind his eyes, inside his skin. They were not going to let him fall. This was the path he had travelled all the way from the burning wreckage of his home.

He opened his eyes and expected brightness to blind him, but the jungle around him was sheathed in velveteen darkness and calm stillness of night. The only sound was his own ragged breathing and muttering of the river nearby. It sounded large, large than the small rivulet he had seen on his way here. The faintest of traces of blue was visible above him, wriggling like a dying serpent between the black spikes of the treetops.

Desmond turned his head and wasn't surprised to find Altaïr look back at him with his eagle's eyes. It was a disconcerting image now, still held in thrall of the memory the Parcae had shown him. There was no compassion in Altaïr's gaze, only a faint trace of warmth, a flicker of sympathy he made no effort to mask.

Desmond groaned again. His throat was dry and parched, despite all the water around him. It felt as if he had been screaming for hours. He remembered no such thing, but that didn't mean much anymore. Maybe he had swallowed sand as he had nearly drowned. He wondered if Altaïr had fished him from the river.

"What did I do?" Desmond asked hoarsely. As if in answer, the sky above him seemed to shiver, change colour and the pinprick lights of stars wavered for no more than a second.

Altaïr looked up briefly before he answered. "You found the Temple. Some kind of energy field has come up."

Desmond allowed his eyes to fall closed. "She… they… said it wouldn't work right." He paused, trying to collect his thoughts. Already the events of the Temple seemed distant, surreal. His skin itched and if he concentrated he could imagine the writing on the inside of his eyelids, where the Animus had downloaded the ancient key inside him. But it still wasn't real, not quite. One memory, among an ocean of others.

"It seems to work," Altaïr said. He moved and there was only the faintest murmur of shifting leaves and grass as he got up. Desmond put his head back, stared up at Altaïr above him and was reminded for a fleeting moment of the statue in Montereggioni, looming above in the jittery darkness of the sanctuary. Except, of course, that statue had never looked anything like Altaïr and here he was, flesh and blood, returned from the brink of death to foil an ancient conspiracy.

Desmond made move himself, but his arms refused to support him. He settled instead for pulling his leg from the water and relaxing into the damp ground under him. He breathed. "What does it mean?" he asked.

Altaïr hesitated. He looked down where the river was dispersing against sharp rocks, where Desmond would have been smashed, had he not found himself miraculously on the banks. The clear water turned angry white, beating against the stone.

"The Apple spoke of a means to protect us," Altaïr said slowly. "Before computers, before this modern age began, I barely understood half of what it was saying. This forcefield, it draws its power from the very flares it keeps at bay, but for this to be effective, a control network needs to be functioning down here."

There was a price attached to all of this, one he doubted he could even begin to comprehend. Desmond said, "What about the technology?"

Altaïr said nothing, kept his silence for so long that Desmond finally forced his eyes open to look back at him.

"You don't know?" Desmond asked, stunned.

A small smile crossed Altaïr's face. "I don't know everything, Desmond."

Desmond frowned and found his strength again somewhere, struggled into a sitting position and stared across the darkness at his ancestor. "You don't know?" Desmond repeated. He heard his own voice almost tipping, falling into hysterics, but he managed to force it back down, allow his worn voice to cover for it. "You did all that and you didn't _know?" _

Altaïr shook his head, got to his feet smoothly. "Let's go back to the others," he said. He stepped close to Desmond, reached down and closed one hand around Desmond's upper arm, pulled him mercilessly to his feet. "They all need to hear what happened."

* * *

They were camped a little while downriver, where the water unexpectedly returned to its old stone channel. There was an open space here of what seemed to be the remnants of a house, its walls weathered down to waist-height and partially covered by moss. Tam's memory explained to Desmond how this must have been a villa, once, at the outer edges of Sianahk'ab, possibly belonging to some lower official or other.

Desmond saw the campfire glow and the thin line of smoke as it rose towards the altered sky. He was too tired to look up, too tired to keep walking as it were. He hadn't been hurt badly, just scratches and bruises from his fall, from being tossed about in the water afterward and being adrift in the river afterward. Still, a body could run on adrenaline and madness only for so long. There were limits and Desmond desperately wanted to sleep. He breathed a sigh of relief when the camp appeared before him, with the assurance that he wouldn't have to be the damsel and have Altaïr carry him for the rest of the way.

Shaun saw them first. He sat on one of the broken walls behind where Rebecca was propped up against backpacks and bedrolls. She had her computer in her lap in front of her and for a moment, Desmond dared to hope, only to have it dashed when they came closer and he caught the tail-end of their conversation.

"I hate to say that, but are you sure it's got power?" Shaun offered.

Rebecca growled in frustration. "Yep, it does! I don't know why it's not working."

She looked past the laptop and her face lip up when she spotted Desmond and Altaïr.

"And so the lost lamb returns," Shaun said, though less caustically than normal. Indeed, he jumped from the wall and went to the fire, where a kettle stood in the embers of the fire. He poured steaming coffee into a cup and pressed it into Desmond's hand.

Desmond shook, crumbling by the fireside and clutching the cup.

"The others aren't back yet," Shaun said to Altaïr. "Shouldn't be long, however."

Bleary-eyed Desmond stared past the edge of the cup into the fire. Distantly he heard Rebecca snap her laptop closed in frustration and then eye him attentively.

"Jesus, Des, you look worse than I do," she said finally.

He looked up, forced a shallow smile. "Bad lighting," he said with a tired attempt at humour. She had the decency to smile.

She said, "The others are still out, looking for you." She edged forward. "How did it go? What happened?"

Desmond returned her eager stare and did his best not to give her laptop a pointed look instead. The heat from the coffee had worked its way through the wall of the cup. The warmth slithered into his bones, replaced his exhaustion with a greater tiredness.

Altaïr sat down at his said and it was all Desmond could do not to fall back against him there and then. For all the things he knew about Altaïr, all he had seen around and inside him, Altaïr was still security — _father — _when everything else had already shattered.

"We can wait a little longer," Altaïr said quietly and Desmond felt his searching look. "Why don't you rest until then?"

Like a spell, spoken and released, set free in the chirping jungle air and the flicker of the Shielding above, Desmond _did _fold sideways in slow motion. His vision wavered uncertainly, drew blurry lines from the ruins and he saw them shimmer, briefly, back into the splendour they once had held. He was vast asleep before he even realised Altaïr had stopped his fall, picked the cup from his relaxing hands and extricated himself carefully from under Desmond.

* * *

It was still dark when Desmond woke. Or rather, it was dark again, as Shaun told him with unusually neutral tones. Desmond pushed himself into a sitting position, stared into the campfire. H sensed them around him, the ghosts of the past and these real people of his life. He tried to remember his dreams, could almost reach them if he only concentrated hard enough, if his mind would only work properly. The illusion was comforting, just a moment's thoughts and all the secrets finally revealed to him, laid bare before his very eyes, for him alone to weigh and judge, to use or discard. All these destinies, shoved down his throat, forced into his hands, only so he found himself here, in this place and he was floundering, stuttering, searching for words.

He felt it, the knowledge, the memory of his words writing itself into his genes, his DNA winding around itself to accommodate this moment, to preserve it in flesh and blood for whatever generations would follow.

He told them everything in a toneless voice that he barely recognised as his own. He lapsed a few times, into Arabic and Italian and a handful of other languages, some of them dead, some of them so old they had become mythical. He would notice when this happened by how tight the silence suddenly grew around him, how it suddenly was filled only by his own voice and the crackle of the fire.

He spoke of the tomb raiders, of his plunge into surrender. Only as he spoke, he realised how much this moment had mattered to him, how desperately he had wanted to taste this defeat. It would have set him free of all of this. And yet, in the end, he had succumbed — had _chosen _to succumb — to these harsher instincts that had become such an intricate part of him. How could he have shaken that? Short of dying, short of putting a bullet through his own head?

At his words, Sianahk'ab came alive around them, grew from the eternal green of the jungle in spires and towers, in arched bridges in steeped, looming pyramids. He followed Tam's steps once more, across the plaza, where he had been attacked, where his lips had been split by the perfect black of an obsidian blade. It throbbed painfully even now, this wound, which was almost as old as time as it strained against his lips.

He told them of the Parcae and of what Tam had said about their motives, unravelling the traps set and the conditions meant to be impossible to meet, meant to make them fail either way. And he wondered then, if he hadn't made a mistake, if he hadn't done _exactly _what Nona had wanted him to. But no, Nona had never calculated with this, had never expected a man like Altaïr to ever come into existence, determined and ruthless enough to load the dice into their own favour.

Desmond described the memory the Parcae had shown him, watched Altaïr's face attentively as he did and saw nothing there to prove what he had seen right or wrong; for there was always that, wasn't there, that the Parcae had lied about it all, conjured some fiction for him, so Desmond found another reason to rend them all apart. This time, Desmond's switch into Arabic was deliberate, low-voiced. Ezio would understand, he supposed, but that seemed to have an odd symmetry of its own. Desmond said, "Maria forgave you; for what it's worth."

Altaïr tensed, a tiny movement going through his entire body, then he nodded slowly, said nothing else. He seemed to pull himself together after that, motioned for Desmond to continue. Desmond frowned, in half-seen memories, but knew how to back down and away, how to leave Altaïr what space he needed.

What else had he been supposed to do? Say no, with all of Tam's flames roaring in his head? Say no, just because the price he was agreeing on was so far beyond his comprehension he couldn't possibly understand what it meant?

There was another silence when he was finished. He had run dry, emptied out all over again. He wasn't tired, not any longer, but exhausted nonetheless. He had wound up tight for this, lived and breathed only for this for so long. Blood had been spilled, there had been death paving his road and now the way seemed to come apart in front of him, fall away and leave him without any guidelines at all.

It was Rebecca who spoke first, slowly, as if her throat had gone dry while Desmond spoke. "So that explains why the laptop won't work."

Desmond looked at her. What would it mean for her, who was so well-versed, so immersed in all this technology he had thrown away? He said, "And the cars, I'm guessing, nor the guns either, but I'm not sure." He shook his head, looked away from them all and into the campfire. "I don't what the perimeters are or how long it'll last" He paused, thought for a moment. "Whether there is some loophole for us to find."

"What will this do to societies?" Lucy asked, more to herself than to the others. "I already left them cracking by exposing our war, but this? Nothing will be left standing."

Desmond snapped his head back up, unexplainably angry all of her sudden, uncomprehending of the desperation sneaking into her tone. "We can rebuilt," he said and it came out sharper than he had intended. "Whatever is going down right now. We'll get going, we'll get out of this damn jungle. It's time to take a look at the world. I saved it, remember? I'll not just go and leave it to find another death."

And suddenly, it was too much. He got up, twisted around with speed he knew he hadn't had two days ago. He stomped off into the night, away from the whispering of the ruins and the silvery tinkering of the river.

* * *

More darkness. Desmond wondered if the morning would ever come, if the Shielding blocked more than just flares. Perhaps they would die in darkness instead, frozen to their bones, starved corpses on the lifeless wasteland the world had been reduced to. Reason told him this was not so. He had slept through an entire day and dawn was coming. If he strained his newly sharpened eyes he could just about make out the slight glimmer through the trees, slightly brighter than it had been only a few minutes before.

Desmond had found himself some fallen tree trunk, high enough off the ground to let him perch easily. He listened to the sound of the jungle, listened long enough that he heard Altaïr, quite a distance away, pass by on his watch. Heard the man stop, suddenly and Desmond, just barely heard the second set of footsteps, weightless on soft ground.

Altaïr stopped moving altogether. "Have you come to try and kill me at last?"

Ezio chuckled, a quiet, chilling sound, carried on the night-air. "If I did, I would not have let you hear me."

Desmond knew that Altaïr smiled to himself. There was no answer. Minutes trickled by, the stars overhead turned slowly, their cold clarity disturbed by the forcefield. It had not been this dark on earth in many centuries and yet, the darkness kept lessening. Desmond almost began to believe that another morning would come.

Eventually, Ezio said, "I have thought about what you said."

"So?" Altaïr asked.

"You never knew me as well as you thought," Ezio said. He sounded both tired and amused. "There was no need to lie to me."

"Wasn't there?" Altaïr asked softly. "If I had asked, you could have refused."

Ezio made an involuntary movement, the whisper of his clothes betrayed him. Then he was still again. "Yes, but I'm Master of the Assassins, just like you. I know what that means, I know what it _takes. _I'd not have said no, Altaïr. Not ever."

Another silence, thicker this time, full of potential. Desmond knew how close this was to explode, how easy it would be for this to break into violence. Just one wrong move, from either man, one mistake, one more shattering of some unspoken rule.

Altaïr said, "Where does that leave us?"

"Here," Ezio said simply. "At the end of things. What else are you keeping from me?"

Altaïr moved, very faintly and Desmond was too far away to be sure what that meant. The silence stretched again, tensely and straining to snap.

"You felt nothing when the forcefield first came up?" Altaïr asked finally. "No change at all?"

Ezio would narrow his eyes at this, Desmond thought. Narrow his eyes and consider Altaïr's words carefully. "No," he said then. "Was there something?"

"All the Pieces of Eden have been burned up for their power," Altaïr explained. Desmond could tell how carefully he picked his words. "Otherwise, I doubt the forcefield could hold. Whatever power has kept us alive, whether illusion or not, it's gone now."

None of Desmond's memories could help him contemplate what this sort of revelation would do to anyone. Immortality, on whatever condition, had never been part of anyone's life as far as Desmond could tell, but there was something else now, some memory even more distant than Tammuz. Desmond let himself distracted, chasing it through this other, infinitely more tangled jungle of his mind.

Ezio laughed mirthlessly. "Good," he said.

"That is really what you want?" Altaïr asked with genuine surprise too strong to be hidden completely.

"What I want," Ezio repeated. "Is to have a full life. _Everything_ I can experience and you took half of that from me. Now I have it back. I get to grow old again, I'll feel my life bleed from my body."

"It's not a pleasant experience," Altaïr pointed out.

"I'm not expecting it to. But it's part of life. _Dying _is part of life. I want to face death as an equal, not as some coward who doesn't play fair."

"Well," Altaïr said and the direction of his voice changed. He was beginning to move away. "You are getting your wish, then."

Desmond listened to them and _failed _to hear Ezio leave, only knew on some more instinctual level that Ezio was gone. Perhaps back to the others, perhaps to find himself his own perch to think through. Desmond listened so intently that he also did not hear Altaïr approach him until he was suddenly there, by his side.

Desmond turned his head and he had been in the darkness long enough, his eyes were so used to it by now, he thought he might have been able to read in this gloom. Or perhaps time had truly gone strange and the dawn was much closer than it should have been.

"Do you ever tell the truth?" Desmond asked.

"Truth," Altaïr said with a shrug. "Is arbitrary."

Desmond found himself nodding despite himself. He said, "Lucy is in love with you, she just hasn't realised it yet."

"And I'll be gone before she does," Altaïr replied. "It's better that way."

Desmond breathed in, cool midnight air, scent of trees and damp leaves. He wondered when the ever-present stench of blood had left him. "You don't have to leave, there will be…" He fell silent, did momentarily not know what to say. "I don't what there will be, but we'll need all the help we can get. Your knowledge and Ezio's, it'll be invaluable."

Altaïr shook his head. "I already meddled more than I should."

And there was no contesting that, Desmond thought wryly. Nona would certainly agree. "What will happen when Ezio finds out you lied to him again?"

"What I did was give Ezio a purpose," Altaïr said airily. "When he realises I lied, he will come for me. He will hunt me and he will have goal that keeps him from meddling, too." He paused for a moment, then added quietly. "Both of us, of course."

"And what then?" Desmond asked. He felt a shiver try to work its way past his skin, despite the heat. He had thought the ending had come and gone, but because this was no fairy tale, there was always something _after _the ending, some new beginning to wreak his heart as it hurled towards its own conclusion.

Altaïr shrugged in the darkness. "One day, he will find me, I will let him find me. He will learn then that I am not prey to be hunted. Maybe we will finally know who is the better man."

Desmond was quiet, withdrawn, trying to shake the feeling, trying to remember who this man at his side was, who he once had been and what it must have taken to come here.

Altaïr said, "Don't misunderstand me. I wanted this when I forced the Apple to bring me here. I wasn't going to take that defeat. And maybe I still can't and never will."

Desmond didn't know what defeat Altaïr meant, his death at the hands of the Mongols as Masyaf fell, or this greater defeat, out here and centuries later. A part of Desmond felt like crying, here in the dark where no one would see him. He felt like crying and in the wake of this feeling, a smile forced itself on his face. He said, "And that was the truth?"

"As much of it as there ever was," Altaïr said. He drew back from Desmond, silent as death, carved with razors in the night as he left. This was similar to how he had come into Desmond's life, how it's stepped out into the light in that safe-house. How he had reached into the future a long time before that. Altaïr _had _tipped the balance, however egoistic it might have been, however much damage it might have done. Along this road, if even one step had been wrong, Desmond would have failed and any of his ancestors, narrowly balanced against one fall or another. And now, he had left all that behind. The memories were still there and doubtless, the ghosts and dreams would never leave him, but there were no more milestones to tell him where he was going right, no more prophesies to keep him constrained. Whatever destiny he had from this day onward, it would have to be of his own making.

* * *

Lucy gives him a notepad and a pen. Desmond remembers staring down at it, will remember it in perfect clarity in all the years that follow. He has looked at the empty paper with its pale blue squares. He knows what Lucy wants of him, but why does she think it was his duty? Not wanting to argue with her, he only nods and lets her go. She treats him differently since Altaïr and Ezio are gone — gone like they had come, vanished like all the other apparitions and sometimes, in weak moments, Desmond wondered whether they had ever been really there, whether he hadn't simply conjured them in his misery. Surely he is insane enough to rearrange events in his head to make it fit?

He shakes the feeling every time it comes. He knows better. They are different from the memories, they don't bleed through his bones, they never looked out through his eyes.

They are camped in an abandoned farmhouse that night. There was some sign of slaughter, but the living room is clean enough and a storm has pinned them down in this place. Desmond leans back, feels the heat from the chimney. The last scents of diner hang still in the air, faint whiff of tea and hot chocolate, mingled with the every presence of death. He pulls the notebook out, leans it against an upraised knee. He twirls the pen in front of his eyes for a moment, watches as it transforms into a slender throwing knife before it reverts.

* * *

[from the Diary of Desmond Miles, dated _July 24 2013]_

Lucy has talked me into keeping a journal. I know what she intends, to be sure. She wants me to chronicle this, so that those who come after (should I capitalise that?) know how it happened, because there will be an awful lot of bullshit reported about the next hundred years. And I think, so what? Why would anyone want to read my ramblings?

I feel stupid writing for some perceived audience. Maybe they'll never come. Maybe YOU do never come. Not sure. Anyway, IF you did and IF you end up reading this, here is what happened:

I met fate in Sianahk'ab. What would you have said, if fate came and asked you, would save the earth? Should I have said 'no' and left us all to die? Burned up in the flames? All of this into ashes?

I didn't understand. It was not fair to throw me that decision. But I no longer expect life to be fair. (You shouldn't either.)

I am Desmond Miles (most of the time). I saved the world. And I destroyed it.

* * *

_Pulvis et umbra sumus (we are dust and shadows) — Horace, Carmina Book IV 7;16_


	23. Epilogue: The Legend of Desmond Miles

**Author's Note: **The epilogue is a tricky little thing. I love it for a variety of reasons, but there is a chance it ruins everything. If that happens, just hit the back button and substitute your own reality and know that you do so with my blessing.

Also, apologies to people of Santa Fe, it was picked at random.**  
**

* * *

**Epilogue: The Legend of Desmond Miles**

Desmond Miles once wrote in his diary _two Romes have fallen. _This is what is known about the end of the world. This is what knowledge survived past the Hundred Years. _I'll make sure we built this third to last. I promised. _

In the old calendar, it was in the year 2012 that the Assassin Desmond Miles travelled to the ruins of Sianahk'ab in the jungle of Guatemala, where he discovered what remained of a power network established by the First Generation, who had known of the Sun Cycle and had prepared a means to counteract its destruction, so the world would not die in flames a second time. This Shielding, however, would not function as it should, for the time had been too long, too much had been taken away in these endless years since its original conception. And so came the Hundred Years, and so all the world went dark when its machinery failed, when all its glorious, vital technology became dead under the force of the Shielding.

Chaos followed this darkness as people struggled — and often failed — to adapt and survive when everything changed. Few records of these early years remain, much was destroyed, burned in different flames, abandoned and lost in the immediacy of other concerns. What is known, is that many countries and societies fell apart under the strain, returned to the more vicious ways they had only just began to leave behind.

This was the world Miles and his companions returned to, this was what they found when they finally left the jungle behind them to rejoin people that were already beginning to form gangs, or, to use expressions far older and yet newly applicable, tribes and clans. The Diary of Desmond Miles, incomplete as it is, constitutes one of those few records, but the Diary only describes small portions of the world, at least in the beginning and Miles himself is an unreliable narrator, sometimes switching personalities and languages as he writes, seemingly without noticing, his sanity and the trace it left in the writing, coming and going like the tide.

What _is _known, is that Desmond Miles led his companions north; they crossed through Mexico and into the fracturing United States. Along the way, Miles was joined by others, by surviving Assassins looking for him, drawn by a message that, miraculously, survived the Hundred Years and was preserved in full for all the future to hear and bear witness to the call to arms that had made Miles' success possible.

It wasn't only Assassins who came, however. Normal people joined them, when they lost everything as their metropolises fell apart, people who found themselves outcast when their neighbours remembered ancient superstitions and drove them away. People who had began walking away, with no direction in mind at all, other than the desperate need to find _something_ in the night.

Miles and the Assassins were a safe place. They were powerful and strong, they knew how to fight and survive and Miles opened his arms to all who would accept it. _Machiavelli once said to me 'if you must be a prophet, be at least an armed one'. I laughed and told him to write that down. I'm beginning to see his point. _

So it was, when Desmond reached the region that had once belonged to Santa Fe, seven years after the Shielding had first come up. In Santa Fe, a new religious sect had come up, had barricaded themselves and began terrorising the countryside around it and the people who found themselves under its sway. The sect believed that an angry God had come down on them, had cursed them for their faith in their gimmicks rather than Him and the only way to appease Him would be to destroy all that still remained of the old knowledge. Everything from the time before the Shielding would have to be destroyed, would have to be sacrificed as prove of their repentance. They had burned a man once already, before the Assassins came, for adhering to his own beliefs.

_Tomorrow, we will make battle in the ways of old, _Miles wrote in the Diary. _An army assembled on a field outside the town. There is an old highway here, I can't help but notice, I can't help but see. And yet, there will be a medieval battlefield strewn across it. Sometimes, our guns still work, but they are no longer reliable, not as reliable as crossbows anyway, or arrows. We have assembled a small unit of warriors armed with slings. They are as good as bullets, once you work out how to use them. _

_I found this sword. I don't know where it came from, or what it means that I should stumble over it right here. It is an amazing blade and it calls to me with its temptation. But I wonder, can I still afford to resist it? Have I lost that freedom in Sianahk'ab? _

_Tomorrow we make battle. You do not go to war against an Assassin army. We have left the shadows behind now, it is time to prove our mettle. _

After the battle was won, Miles reinstated a new government in Santa Fe, watched over and protected by no more than a handful of Assassins, but secure enough when their hands were still bloodied in the aftermath of their victory. Something changed after that, but these are missing pages and posterity does not know. One way or another, Miles and his company stopped moving, stopped their aimless wandering across the land. Miles must have seen that there was another way. Fighting were they encountered wrongs was one thing, but it was random, guided by chance more than anything and the darkness all around remained. Miles founded a town, out in the open, in what the Diary calls _the open prairie, finally. _

The settlement became powerful quickly, a centre of trade and, moreover, a centre of sanity and security. It was in this place, that Miles began building the Hastings Library, named for one of his most trusted companions, who would guide and guard it against all the onslaughts of time and who would make it outlast the Hundred Years.

_There was once a great library at Alexandria. And I remember walking its halls after the fire. I wish I could have wept then. And still, there was something in the scorched stone, something like memory. _

_Every ship, every traveler who came to Alexandria had to surrender all its written words, its scrolls and books to be copied for the library. And I think, why don't we do this here? We could built an archive of memories. Not just what is in our heads and our genes. Who knows what is lost already? No, we need to preserve all of this. Another world will come, will built on what we can leave behind. I made a promise to fate._

And then came what is now called the Watershed. Then came the time that Miles, an old man by then, pulled back from the forefront. When he called all the Assassins back. Miles and the Eyrie — _I call it the Eyrie, this new fortress of ours, but only when I'm alone with myself — _had spread their influence far, their message of temperance and freedom, their pursuit of knowledge and the prowess on the battlefield had earned them admiration or at least grudging respect among all the new nations that populated the continent. In the Watershed, Miles reinstated democratic elections in all towns he directly controlled and after a year, he was gone. The Assassins vanished among the people, returned to where they had come from. But gradually, the example was followed in other places, sometimes peacefully, sometimes not.

There are similar stories found on all continents. There was Lian the Heroine in Asia and the Assassins of Old Europe. They all were gone after the Watershed, only what they had built endured, only their memory stayed for a little while. There was prosperity again, as much as was possible with these limited means, but humanity had proven its persistence in the face of insurmountable odds before. _What is destroyed, can be rebuilt. _

What was more, there were the the people who emerged at the end of Hundred Years, who had built a world with arbitrarily limited tools, who had fought and died and suffered so that there was going to be something of value left by the end of it all.

The knowledge stored at Hastings contained one last treasure, meticulously preserved on paper, staked high in one special storeroom and guarded by a tomb.

_Rebecca is dying. It's cancer. We've known for a long time, but we couldn't treat it and she is in pain constantly now. She asks for a proper death and Lucy looks at me like I am the leader. _

_I put a blade to her. I cannot do anything but grant her wish. What else am I to do? She smiled at me. _

_Her life's work is complete. She told me that a few weeks earlier. For months, or years I am no longer sure, she sat and scribbled down the Animus program code. We have tried to preserve what knowledge we can, but we are few and so much was lost in the early days. With the Animus in a hundred years we can regain it. We can sit down and rebuilt what was lost. We cannot test the code, of course, but I trust Rebecca's knowledge. I trust her. I owe her my life uncountable times_.

As for Miles himself, nothing is known of his life after the Watershed. There is no place and date of his death. His family, his son and granddaughter were sometimes mentioned in documents from their time, only to suddenly vanish before the Hundred Years ended. There are no places of pilgrimage, except for Hastings and the Eyrie, now preserved as a museum. All that remains of Miles are the disparate pieces of his Diary and what they tell of him and his splintered mind, what they reveal of his struggles with himself and the world, with the destiny he had found at the end in Sianahk'ab and the promise he made there.

* * *

The museum was a large, elegant building of glass, transparent from the inside and a darkly reflective mirror from the outside. Despite its size, it held a certain grace in its structure, curved like the wing of an eagle in flight, frozen in the very moment before it dived to its prey.

It was the largest museum for the Second Generation on the continent, famous the world over for its research as well as its exhibits. Here, the Animus Network had originated and here the catalogues and a large portion of the original collection of the Hastings Library were still kept. Here, too, were the remaining pages of the Diary on display, the only proof that a man named Desmond Miles once walked the world. The only proof, if you so will, except for the world itself and all it had achieved, now in this age of the Third Great Civilisation.

In the advent of the new year's celebration, the museum was almost silent. Those few of its visitors who still wandered its airy halls were quiet, reverently, in the ruins from which they had come. Its invisible walls were opened to the bright, grand celebrations on the wide square outside and the streets of the city. A low, red and purple evening sun painted the ground and the revellers and danced on its own between the artifacts.

A man stood by the long row of displays that harboured the pages of the Diary, of what remained of them. Fires and time had destroyed large portions of it and finding the rest, or an unblemished copy perhaps, was one of the greatest treasure hunts of the modern day. Despite its name, the Diary had never been a book. Rather, it was a collection of loose pages of different sizes and quality, written with ink or pencil of charcoal, one line even had been scribbled in blood — not Miles' own blood, there were no genetic records of Miles himself. Through the centuries, marks had been left on the paper, strains of dirt or water or blood and the edges were dulled and faded.

The man walked slowly along the row, eyes fixed on the pieces of history. He stopped, sometimes, as if reading, but his attention was elsewhere. The room was empty, except for him and the woman watching him from the entrance. Dressed for a new year's party, she still wore the small silvery badge that identified her as an employee of the museum.

She watched him for a moment longer, then walked across the polished tiles to stand at the man's side, studying him for a moment before she spoke. He was dressed in last year's fashion, a white hoodie pushed down from his head, the shirt puffy enough to allow him to hide his hands in his pockets. He had an odd way of holding himself utterly still, in the way resting predators might. An attractive man, she decided, with his piercing eyes under dark brows, their cool intensity offset by the sensual curve of his lips.

"It's fascinating, isn't it?" she asked, looked away from him and at the display. She caught a line of writing, where Miles had had to change from thin blue ink to pencil. _We are still counting the dead. Ours and theirs. Death makes no difference between enemies. _

The man smiled a little, as if at some private joke he wouldn't share. He said, "I come here far too often."

She didn't answer immediately, thinking that she hadn't seen him here before and he struck her as a memorable man. Before she could think of an answer, he looked at her directly for the first time and for a moment she couldn't think.

"Is it true?" he asked quietly. "There are no descendants of Miles? And no Assassins in the world?"

She looked away because she had to. Her mind was empty under those eyes and their impossible gold. She cleared her throat before she spoke, trying to collect her thoughts. "That is how it seems. No one ever scanned into the Animus Network was related. Not to Miles, not to an Assassin, or a Templar for that matter. Sometimes they appear in someone's memory, but they are usually only short images. There are experts who claim that Miles made it all up, that he went insane."

"Do you believe that?"

She laughed a little. "No, a madman couldn't have done what he did. Don't you see? Desmond Miles saved us, not just from the Sun Cycle, but from dying in the stone age. He built the first Assassin fortress, he founded Hastings so we would have something if we survived the Hundred Years." She looked at him again, her own intensity suddenly matching his. "Maybe he wasn't completely _sane_, but he can't have dreamt all that up. It's not possible. If it were, we'd not be here, having this conversation."

The man nodded and they stood in silence for a time, side by side, watching the display. She felt him move and it startled her. He lifted his hand and reached out. He wore fingerless gloves in stark black, shining like leather, vanishing under his sleeves. She gripped his hand and held it. "Don't," she advised gently. "You'll set off the alarm."

"Sorry," he said and it sounds dejectedly enough.

She smiled a little. "But I understand it, trust me. Wanting to touch that little piece of history. It makes it all more real."

He took a step closer to her, looking past her to let his eyes rest on the console that controlled the stasis field around the Diary's pages. "If you give me back my hand, I'll let you go to your party."

She was still holding on to the hand she had snatched away, looking down at his long fingers she briefly wondered what it would be like to lace them with her's. "Do I have to?" she asked and gave him a pointed look.

He put his head to the side, smiling brightly. It transformed his face, from cold to dazzling. He slipped his hand from her grasp only to curl his arm around her waist. "If I get a drink?" he smirked. He gestured at the Diary pages. "I used to be a bartender."

She followed the direction of his gaze, then turned her attention to the end of the row of displays, to the last page. She walked the few steps, glad to find him following.

"The last page is considered somewhat cryptic," she explained. "There is much speculation over it, I've seen it all." She laughed. "What do you think he meant?"

His gaze fixed on the paper. The page was mostly empty, except for a few strains of dark brown and the two lines, scribbled hastily with a red pen low on ink. On a few letters the pen had torn through the paper, leaving welts like scars behind.

"It's nothing," he said dismissively. "Just the ramblings of an old man."

For a moment, the dazzle faded and there was an edge of sadness and loss, making him seem so much older than he looked. For reasons she could not name, she felt impossibly tense, as if her spine was about to crack. Then, suddenly, he smiled again and the tension broke away as if it had never been. "Now, about that drink…"

He pulled her forward gently, made to go. His touch vanished for an instant, but before she could react he slipped his hand back to her waist.

"So what is your name?" she asked, walking through the empty museum.

He chuckled, tucking his other hand back into the pocket of his shirt. "Promise not to laugh."

"Promise."

He drew her a little closer, his chin pushed past her temple and he lowered his voice and there was laughter in it, low and inviting.

"It's Desmond," he said.

* * *

[from the Diary of Desmond Miles, dated _Summer 2061_]

The face in the mirror is lying. It doesn't belong to me. It's someone else, but I don't remember the names, there are too many of them. Lucy looks different. She has changed. She is old. We all are old. Not only in body, but in spirit. Looking back it seems so strange, to think that there was once a different world. That I ran away from my parents and bought a motorcycle. I remember the day I went into Solomon's Temple with Malik and Kadar. Everything changed then. And there is Damascus coming alive around me. Venezia is beautiful, but you don't get over the stink unless you were born to it. Roma. Paris. Tulaytulah. Lying in my lover's arms in Sirahidaa before everything else. All the places I've seen and never been to, all the lives I've lived.

I'm forgetting again. Too many things in my head. All the time, I'm never alone. I have forgotton how to wish for silence. But there is something I still need to do.

There is this story I'm telling the people when they come to me. It is what I whispered to my children when they were young. What I will keep telling them. About an order of murderers, who stand in the shadows to defend the light. I will tell them that we do not follow blindly the truth. I will tell them that we are not bound by morality or law. I will tell them to be wise. And I will remind them to be free.

It is a story, told by a madman at the end of his path.

It is a story about two warriors so skilled that death itself bows to them. And I am certain that they will return, the way all religions tell it, in our hour of greatest need.

* * *

After the Hundred Years were done, a new world climbed from the ruins and ashes of the old, shaking off its shackles once again as it stood under a blue sky, the sight unimpeded by the forcefield that had protected them for so long. After the Hundred Years, everything had changed and because of this, the world had began anew. The Hundred Years ended in Year 1 of the New Count.

The world rebuilt itself, repaired the terrible wounds that had been ripped into its flesh and maybe even had its people grown wiser in those years. Wise enough, at any rate, to avoid some of the mistakes made by previous generations. Two great civilisations had come and fallen, this was the third, determined this time, to last.

Dawn slid through the city while the streets were still alight with celebration. The music and cheering carried on the wind, even up here, where he scaled the wall to find the edge of a rooftop. He looked down for a little while, the tiny dots of light as they danced, exalting in their existence, in the hopefulness of another year before them, secure in the knowledge that they, finally, had arrived in the enlightened age promised and prophesied for so long.

There was still a war boiling just underneath the surface of the world. The truce he had forged under the canopy of the Shielding was over, its terms fulfilled and all the old adversaries had returned to their strongholds and the fighting began anew. The Templars were still there and because of that, so were the Assassins, holding the balance the way they had always done. It was true, no relation of Miles had ever been scanned into the Animus Network, no Assassin and no Templar, but not because they didn't exist.

He remembered Altaïr — Altaïr, who had come back one day with a long, disfiguring scar across his face — and Rebecca going through the Animus programme code, scribbling to down from memory. For months they had used up all the paper they could import. There had not been any way to test it, of course, but the future had proven the brilliance of their work. Especially when one knew about the slight change they had applied to the code. Rebecca had little trouble identifying the White Eagle code, the part that scanned for specific DNA, and then she had altered it to exclude what it found. Assassin and Templar memories would forever be filtered out by the new Animus, hiding them from the scrutiny of the public and from each other.

He remembered, too, going through the pages of his diary, deciding which to keep and which to burn. The last page had been written so much later, stupidly so, perhaps, in his darkest hour and then forgotten.

He pulled his hand from his pocket, still clutching the page he had stolen from the museum. He smoothed it out, holding vast against the sharp wind that tried tucking it from his grip. Almost he felt tempted to let go, to let those last words of a dead prophet be blown away, set free like an eagle as the chains fall from its feet. He didn't, of course, but the lure was there nevertheless.

He looked down across the streets and wondered if they could feel the shadow he cast over them. All of this world, too far advanced to think him a god, but still paying homage to a man who had been nothing but a bartender once — and a sinner in Solomon's Temple and a murderer blinded by grief. He was and still is all of them. He could never separate himself even if he tried and they were there, guiding and protecting him. They were temptation and salvation in his mind, all of it and — deep down — none of it. It was too large, too much to comprehend, even now. He had always known it would end like this, but he hadn't known he would still be there to see it. He had never even contemplated, in all the years, that he could one day stand on a skyscraper and watch a new year's celebration. Endlessly amused by the irony, he mouthed the number to himself. "Two-zero-one-two," he laughed in the night. "New Count, mind." The future had come, opened its arms and embraced him, snatched him away from the welcoming arms of death like a jealous lover.

He looked down at the crumpled paper in his hand, at what he had written so long ago and the emotions were as fresh as they had ever been.

He crushed it in his hand, stuffed it back into the pocket. It had been careless leaving the page behind. Like a stupid child looking for attention, wanting these new people to look for him, to wonder at him, marvel at the words that had, indadvertedly, shaped so much of who they had become. Taking it back now might be too late, countless copies had been made of this, its likeness scanned into too many computer systems all over the world. Treatises written about the meaning of it and how it connected to Miles and the Assassins and the past. He could take those away later. The memory of the world was, despite everything, short-lived and fickle. They would forget this piece of paper ever existed, would pass it down into legend and eventually discount its existence. He could wait.

He lifted his gaze to the sky, strewn with stars, glittering and no longer quite as unreachable as they once had been.

He took a running start, saw the edge of the building come to meet him and the horizon seemed to reach for him, hold him in flight. He had never belonged only to himself, but he was still free, in those short, precious moments above the world.

In the Year 1 of the New Count, Desmond Miles had written two lines on squared paper, so forcefully the pen had torn through it:

_And still nothing is true. _

_And still everything is permitted._

* * *

_"Two Romes have fallen. The third still stands. And a fourth there shall not be." — Philotheus of Pskov_ (originally a reference to Tsarist Russia, but here used in a wider context)_  
_

_"Hence it comes about that all armed prophets have been victorious, and all unarmed prophets have been destroyed." — Niccolo Machiavelli  
_

* * *

**End**

* * *

**Author's Note:** A huge thank you to all of you who read this story, who favorite-ed and alert-ed. An especially huge thanks to those who bothered to leave a review, made my day every time! I hope it was an enjoyable ride for you all and I apologise once more for that terrible hiatus in the middle of this thing.

I'd love to hear what you lovely folks all think of the story as whole!


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